


hard feelings

by sina



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Cheating, M/M, Phone Sex, Sexting, sam: jack has dumb bitch disease, some very poorly written hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2020-07-17 23:19:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19964884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sina/pseuds/sina
Summary: Jack’s in love with Bittle. Really, he is.Until he reconnects with Kent.





	1. such a damn liar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blazeofglory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazeofglory/gifts).



> HEY LOOK MA, I'm back on my bullshit!
> 
> This fic was originally conceived as a collab between Sam @blazeofglory and me! She is not back on her bullshit, so I'm taking it on by myself. I do want to stress, though, that many of these ideas are hers, so if you love this fic, make sure to thank her!
> 
> Before we begin, I also want to stress that this fic is extremely not kind to Bitty or zimbits as a whole. I have a lot of opinions about canon check please, and... well, you will see if you decide to keep reading. THIS IS A CHEATING FIC. if you don't like that idea, then maybe just don't read. thanks!
> 
> Title comes from "Hard Feelings/Loveless" by Lorde. All of the chapter titles are going to be from this album (Melodrama). I have a lot of feelings about Melodrama, and I have a lot of feelings about this ship. If you don't already listen to Melodrama on a consistent basis, well, you should. *shrug emoji*
> 
> That should be it. Hope you enjoy!

Bittle is planning a wedding.

Bittle is planning a wedding, and Jack is sick to his stomach.

Don’t get him wrong: Jack loves Bittle. Of course he does. He came out on national TV for the boy. Of _course_ he loves Bittle.

But Bittle is planning a wedding, and Jack is not ready.

Jack isn’t even sure what gave Bittle the idea that they should get married. Sure, it’s been almost seven years. But Jack didn’t propose. Bittle certainly didn’t, either; but when he has an idea, he latches on to it, and he holds on tight. 

Somewhere along the line, Bittle decided he was tired of waiting for Jack to propose, and he just decided it was time, and Jack has no idea what to do or say about it.

So he says nothing.

The problem is, he’s feeling and playing like shit. He hasn’t missed so many passes in his life, and it’s not just in practice, either. He finally had to put the kibosh on reading and watching hockey media, but he knows they must be having a field day over his goal drought. Even his coach has asked if things are okay at home: if his family are all healthy; if things are going well with his relationship; and Jack, scared and confused like never before, has no idea how to admit that he’s simply fucking up because his boyfriend -- uh, _fiancé_ \-- loves him.

It’s so fucking stupid.

But it’s not quite as stupid as his plan to get his hockey back on track: He’s going to go all in on this wedding thing, despite his ice-fucking-cold feet, and hopefully, once it’s all said and done, he’ll be able to focus on the game again instead of biting bullets and quaking in his skates.

That involves doing some truly out-of-character romantic gestures, despite how uncomfortable they make him.

One night, he tries to cook for Bittle. It’s disgusting, and Bittle says so, but he appreciates Jack’s attempt, and Bittle tops him that night for the effort. (Bittle normally wins the squabble about who will top whom during any given tryst, much to Jack’s discontent.)

Another time, he brings home flowers. He thinks Bittle might like lilies, but it turns out Bittle’s -- surprise! -- severely allergic, and the flowers end up in the dumpster on the way to the ER. (They avoid sex entirely, after that disaster.)

One time, after a particularly heinous loss on the road in Carolina, Bittle complains to Jack over text that Jack isn’t spontaneous enough. Jack just wants to talk hockey, but no one seems to want to talk back, so he does his next favorite thing to relieve stress: jerk off.

And that’s when he has his worst idea yet.

Bittle doesn’t think he’s spontaneous enough? Jack decides he’ll do something he’s never done before: send Bittle a dick pick. He’s here, he’s horny, and Bittle is asking for it, as far as Jack is concerned, so Jack strips out of his shirt and boxers and tosses them over the side of the hotel bed. He’s not quite hard yet, so he plays with himself a little to get there. He grabs his phone off the nightstand and haphazardly opens Snapchat, fumbling in his effort to get a good picture with the shitty camera. Once he’s satisfied, he juggles the phone - left handed - to select Bittle’s name on his list of contacts. And he finally presses send.

But, oh. Oh no.

When the photo sends and his phone shows who it was sent to, it is very clear Jack’s thumb did not land on Eric Bittle.

It landed on _Kent Parson_.

He had been on a snap marathon with Kent lately, since he sees so many cats around Providence. Every time he sends Kent a photo of a cat, he receives a mishmash of emojis and “AWW”s in return. Once upon a time, their relationship had been catastrophic; but nowadays, the occasional messages from Kent honestly calm his nerves.

Now, though, his nerves are trying to climb right out of his skin. He’s so on edge, he thinks he could puke, but he absolutely must do damage control first.

He furiously wipes his right hand on the sheets, whispering curses into the empty room, and tries to compose a message -- with his right hand -- to Kent.

“That wasn’t for you!” No, no, delete.

“I’m so sorry!” NO, DELETE.

“Dude do NOT OPEN THAT”

But, alas, Kent opens it before Jack can hit send.

Jack’s eyes blow wide and all the blood drains from his face when he gets the notification that Kent took a screenshot.

Oh, shit. Oh, _shit._

Kent’s obviously going to try to blackmail him. What other reason would there be for Kent to keep the snap? What the fuck is Jack going to do?

He closes the app and opens his phone app, already scrolling through his contacts to find Kent. 

Jack nearly falls off the bed when Kent sends a photo back.

Heart pounding in his ears, he clicks on it.

It’s a mirror selfie. It’s Kent. And he’s completely naked. And very hard.

Of course, his face is hidden. He’s not stupid.

But Jack would recognize those freckled abs anywhere.

And Kent looks really good.

So Jack decides, _fuck it._

And he screenshots Kent’s photo.

Seconds later, he receives another photo: It’s Kent’s hand around his cock, dripping, and Jack can’t help it: his own dick is paying attention.

He closes his eyes. _Am I really going to do this?_ He thinks. 

He could easily back out. He could easily take a new photo, and send it to the right guy this time. He could easily text Kent and explain his mistake. He could easily _ignore this shit and go to bed._

But because he’s so lost -- because things are already completely shit -- he, instead, lies back down, takes his cock back into his hand, and starts pumping.

And he has no idea what he’s doing, and he has no idea why, but he takes another snap. And another. And even a tiny, short video. 

And he sends them all to Kent.

What he truly does not understand is why Kent reciprocates, sending photos and videos of his own. 

After Jack comes, he takes a photo of the mess he’s made of himself, and sends that final photo to Kent.

After washing his hands, pulling his boxers back on, and waiting a few minutes, he gets one back: an identical shot of Kent’s abs covered in thick fluid.

Freckles and all.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and because he never knows when to stop, Jack decides to send Kent a simple:

_What the fuck was that?_

The little cloud with three dots pops up, confirming Kent is about to respond.

_I dunno, dude. You started it, you tell me._

Jack takes a deep breath. He really has no idea what to say, so he says:

_I don’t even know. It was a mistake, the first time._

He hits send.

Then, before he has time to stop himself, he adds:

_But I really liked it._

Jack’s stomach is absolutely roiling. _What am I doing? What am I getting myself into?_ He asks himself, over and over, the thought echoing, and he can’t seem to come up with an answer.

Before long, Kent has responded.

_Shit, haha._

And a moment later: _Aren’t you still with that little twink, though?_

God, even Kent knows Jack shouldn’t be doing this. He decides not to point out that Kent is basically a twink himself, and instead responds:

_Um, yeah. I am._

_Are you sure you’re still into him, if you’re doing this with me?_ Kent asks. “Always straight to the point,” Jack mutters into the emptiness of the room.

_He wants to get married_ , Jack finally responds.

_WOW then you should NOT be doing this with me_ , Kent points out, but Jack knows. He already knows, and yet, here he is.

_I…. don’t want to get married, though._

It’s the first time he’s confessed it, even to himself. He feels like he’s been hit by a train.

He doesn’t receive a response from Kent. Minutes tick by, and Jack just stares at his phone, watching those three little dots appear and disappear. Finally, they seem to disappear for good.

Then his phone rings.

It’s Kent.

Jack answers by the second ring, and he just sobs, a little. "Kent."

“Jack,” Kent breathes into the line. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

Jack breathes in as much as his lungs will hold before he answers, “Honestly? I don’t fucking know, and I’m scared to death, Parse.”

***

“So let me get this hetero-straight,” Kent says. “You’ve been with him for, like, five years, and he just decided you were going to get married? He didn’t even ask you?”

“Yeah,” Jack says shakily. “But it’s actually almost seven years.”

Kent whistles. “But you love him, don’t you?”

“I… yeah, of course,” Jack replies.

“You hesitated there, bud,” Kent points out.

“Barely,” Jack retorts.

“But you did.”

“Okay, so what? I love him, I just… this wedding stuff freaks me out.”

“So you don’t love him that way. It’s really simple. If you wanted to get married to him, you wouldn’t be, pardon my French, fucking me via snapchat, and you wouldn’t be, excuse me, playing so goddamn blowfully out there.”

“Ouch,” Jack murmurs, closing his eyes.

“You know I’m right,” Kent says, though gently. “You clearly aren’t ready to marry someone, Jack.”

“When’d you get so smart?” Jack asks, chuckling darkly.

“Just because you have the emotional intelligence of a nickel.”

“Hey, I resent that.”

“You know I’m right!” Kent repeats. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know. He’s so happy about this,” Jack says miserably. “I don’t know if I can take it away from him.”

“That sucks, bro.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, hey,” Kent offers, “I’m here if you need me, okay?”

“Okay,” Jack says. “I should go to bed, though. It’s, like, 1 AM here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kent says, already sounding distracted. “Have a good night. Glad I tired you out.”

“Hey,” Jack begins, but Kent’s already hung up.

Jack has no idea what just happened. He feels weirdly calm, though, for the first time in a while; and he has to guess that that means something.

Something very important, though he’s not sure what, just yet.


	2. all my best lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack, on the other hand, wakes up with a very dry mouth and a death wish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey again! thanks for reading, if you've decided to resume. this chapter is more or less a quick segue into the rest of the fic, so expect chapter 3 very soon. 
> 
> as always, many thanks to Sam @blazeofglory for both contributing to and cheerleading for this fic! special thanks also go to the lovely discord crowd for helping me to iron out some kinks as I go. I love and appreciate you all!
> 
> onwards...

Kent wakes up with a smile on his face.

He can’t help it; something about this is really funny to him.

He’s a card carrying member of the schadenfreude fan club (or, he would be, if such a thing were to exist), and this whole dramatic thing going on with Zimms? 

Delicious.

He’s not too blind to recognize his own role in this. Obviously, there’s something going on with Jack, and Kent took advantage of that, and that’s pretty uncool. _Understatement of the year_ , he thinks.

But he’s also not above getting a little dick when he can, and as far as he’s concerned, it’s clearly no-strings-attached if Jack is taken. So long as Jack figures his own shit out, it’s no skin off of Kent’s back.

So he keeps smiling. He gets dressed, eats breakfast, gets on the bus, and sits in his usual spot next to Swoops with his signature smirk firmly in place.

“What’s got you so happy?” Swoops asks, but he doesn’t sound _too_ interested, so Kent just shrugs and jams a pair of gigantic, ostentatious headphones onto his ears.

He makes a mental note to, when he gets home, look it up and see if there actually is a schadenfreude fan club.

***

Jack, on the other hand, wakes up with a very dry mouth and a death wish.

Oh, _fuck_ , what is he doing?

What has he _done_?

And -- perhaps the worst -- how is he going to tell Bittle?

He showers perfunctorily, eats about two bites of breakfast, and sits alone on the bus to the airport. He sits alone on the plane. (His teammates seem to know to keep their distance, though he notices them whispering….) He drives home and nearly hits a pedestrian in his distracted, distressed state, and as soon as he gets in he’s even more ready to dig a hole, get in, cover himself up, and ignore the rest of his life in muddy peace.

But Bittle greets him with a kiss and a hot cup of coffee and pulls him over to the table, which is covered in a spread of magazines and professional photos of cakes and flowers. And Jack realizes he has to quit dwelling - has get back to his life as he left it.

He has to, if he wants to stay sane.

But he can’t focus. He sips his coffee, nodding when appropriate, and if Bittle notices that he hasn’t said a word, he doesn’t mention it. He continues to point and offer details on this and that, and Jack just smiles and nods along, starting to offer up fakely enthusiastic “yeah!s” when Bittle asks for his opinion.

“So I’m thinking next summer,” Bittle says, and Jack chokes down a mouthful before he can spit it out in surprise.

“What?... Jack?” Bittle asks, looking concerned.

“That just seems… so soon,” Jack replies, hoping his face doesn’t betray the utter discomfort he feels at the thought of walking down the aisle in eight short months.

“No, no, not this summer upcoming!” Bittle quickly rescinds. “The summer after that.”

“Oh,” Jack gasps, and feels a little of the blood return to his face. “Oh, okay.”

“Lord, Jack,” Bittle says, sounding amused. “Not even I could plan a wedding that fast! Don’t be silly.”

Jack definitely feels silly about all of this.

“So for the flowers, we’re gonna have to go fake because of my allergies, but I’ve found these lovely real-feeling roses that are only --”

Jack zones out again. “That sounds great,” he murmurs as he stands to go get more coffee.

“Jack --” but Bittle’s protests fall on deaf ears. Jack will never even know he was in the middle of a sentence.

But Bittle’s not deterred; he’ll just let Jack readjust to being home before getting into the nitty-gritty of the wedding.

Of course Jack is tired! Bittle just started trying to involve him way too soon.

He approaches Jack in the kitchen, and Jack jumps a mile when he turns and Bittle is right there.

“Whoa,” Bittle says. “Are you okay, honey?”

“I’m just… really tired,” Jack repeats. “It was a tough loss last night.”

“Oh, yeah, I bet,” Bittle nods firmly. “Why don’t you go take a nap? I can bring you something tasty in a little bit, if you like.”

“Sure, yeah,” Jack nods, feeling not at all up to eating empty calories. “Thanks, Bittle, you’re sweet.”

“I know,” he responds, grinning, before grabbing his own mug and loading it with sugar and vanilla syrup.

“I’ll, uh,” Jack says, and Bittle just replies, “I know, honey. I’ll see you soon.”

Jack nods and retreats to the bedroom, where he immediately whips out his phone and types:

Jack: SOS but DO NOT CALL please Kent I need help!!!

Kent replies a few minutes later:

Kent: So you’re home, then?

Jack: Yes, and I have no idea what to do

Kent: You’re gonna tell him, right?

Jack: I honestly can’t, not right now

Jack can hear the laughter in Kent’s voice as he types back:

Kent: Jack I’m sorry but I literally do not know how to help you, you have to figure this one out yourself

Jack: But you responded! You sent photos back!

Kent: Yeah but I don’t have a fiancé. Sorry, bud. This is all you.

Jack buries his face in a pillow and wills himself not to scream.

***

“Hey, I’m, uh,” Jack says when he finally emerges after a number of restless hours. Bittle’s just pulling something out of the oven, and it smells sweet. “I’m gonna go grab something for dinner, what would you like?”

“Whatever you want,” Bittle says with a grin. “I made your favorite, by the way.”

Jack nods, and when he says thanks, he hopes it sounds like he means it.

He’s not sure when he’s going to come back tonight.

He needs some time.

And the apartment is stifling.

So he walks.

And walks.

He finds himself at the edge of the water, the world dark and the streets empty before he decides to call Kent.

The line rings and rings, and Jack is just about to hang up when it finally connects.

“H’lo?” Kent answers, sounding like his is mouth full.

“Sorry, is this a bad time?” Jack says, but what he thinks is, _Gross, Kent._

There’s some noise that Jack can’t distinguish on the other end, but then it disappears, and suddenly there’s quiet.

“Jack. Hey. No, it’s okay, I was just eating leftovers and watching TV. Did you tell him? Did you guys break up or something? Why the SOS?”

“No, and no,” Jack sighs. “I didn’t know what to say. I don’t know what to say. Kent, I don’t know what to do.”

“Not sure why you’re asking me,” Kent replies, and Jack can practically hear him losing interest.

“Just -- you’re good at confronting people. What would you do?”

“I’d have told him right away how you felt about getting married.” Kent breathes deeply, and Jack thinks he might be stretching. “Why didn’t you do that, by the way?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jack murmurs. “I guess I… feel like I owe it to him.”

Kent exhales sharply. “Oof. Man, that’s a shitty reason to marry someone.”

Jack sighs again. “So what should I do?”

“Well, you could tell him the truth. That bears repeating.” 

“Which part?”

“I don’t _know._ ” Kent sounds exasperated. “The cold feet, the cheating, any of it, all of it.”

“I don’t --”

“It was close enough to cheating, Jack,” Kent snaps. “You owe it to both him and me to admit that.”

Jack grunts angrily, then looks around to make sure no one is paying attention to him. But it’s late, and a weeknight, outdoors in November, so there’s really no one around to hear him.

“Okay, okay,” Jack concedes. “I guess it… really was.”

“Good, thank you,” Kent says. “Listen, my food’s gonna get cold, I --”

“Wait, Parse,” Jack begs, and he hears another sharp exhale on the other end of the line.

“Uh, okay. Whatcha need?” Kent asks.

“I just… can we just talk? Like, normally? I just…. I need to talk to someone. I feel like I’m losing my shit.”

“I’m not gonna lie, you definitely don’t seem to have your shit together,” Kent chuckles lightly. “Sure, but I’m gonna put you on speaker and eat while you whine.”

Jack scoffs, but has to smile; he has definitely been a little whiny lately.

“So where are you?” Parse asks, and Jack launches into a little speech about the water front.

“Sounds nice,” Kent says, and he sounds genuine enough.

“Hey,” Jack says softly. “Do you think you might wanna, I dunno, hang out sometime?”

“That’s your pickup line?” Kent snorts. “Jack, we live thousands of miles apart, we can’t really ‘hang out.’” Jack can hear the air quotes.

“I mean, when we play each other again, duh,” Jack retorts, and Kent laughs at how easily he can rile him up.

“That’s not for a while,” Kent reminds him. 

“Oh, you keep track?” Jack teases.

“I’ve been doing this for how long, and you think I don’t have a basic idea of how the season works?” 

“I was kidding, I was kidding,” Jack laughs. He loves getting a rise out of Kent nearly as much as Kent loves doing it to Jack.

And it’s then that he realises just how much he misses Kent.

“Look,” Kent says through a mouthful, “you should get home. It’s late there, you have practice tomorrow, and there’s that whole… fiancé thing you have to worry about.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Jack responds. “I’m super worried about it.”

“Jack, just be honest with him. That’s all you have to do.”

“I’ll… I’ll try.”

“Yeah, you better. You want me to talk to you til you get home?”

“Nah, better not,” Jack says. “It might, uh, spoil the… surprise.”

“Jesus, Jack,” Kent laughs raucously, and Jack thinks it’s lucky he doesn’t choke on his food. “Okay, though, I’ll let you go.”

“Okay, Parse.”

“And hey, knock it off, no one calls me that anymore.”

“I do!” Jack protests, but as usual, Kent has already hung up.

Jack picks up some takeout and walks briskly back to his apartment, ready and determined to talk to Bittle when he gets there. He’s going to come completely clean: about the engagement and wedding, about the snaps, about how he messed up, and then they can see where things go from there.

But when he gets back, he’s greeted with the sight of Bittle stretched out on the sofa, having fallen asleep, as highlight reels from the night’s Detroit vs. Pittsburgh game flicker on the TV, and something inside Jack hurts. It might be that old fondness peeking through the stormclouds in his heart; it might be a touch of pissiness that Bittle broke the “no hockey TV” rule he put in place after his own disastrous month.

He turns off the TV first, then picks up the magazine lying on Bittle’s chest. He picks up Bittle and carries him, bridal-style (he recognizes the irony), to bed, where he tucks him in. He then gets ready for bed himself, and Bittle doesn’t wake the entire time.

Jack will talk to him. He _will_. Soon.

Just not yet.

Not until he gathers the courage again.


	3. to sit in hell with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But first, he has to play a game -- at home against Chicago, who are on a long winning streak -- and he has to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! thanks for joining me for yet another crazy chapter. I hope you enjoy this one -- it was posted later than expected because I'm without internet right now, but I managed to rig something up with my phone. I'll probably add notes to this throughout the week, but we'll see.
> 
> You’ll notice there’s a lot of hand waving about hockey in this fic. I’m sorry that the schedules don’t make sense, and I’m REALLY sorry that I didn’t write more of the actual game, considering this fic is about professional hockey players, but writers have limitations and this is one of mine. Whoops. 
> 
> Thanks as always to Sam @blazeofglory for helping to mastermind and cheerlead! I'd die for you, bb!

Jack wakes up in a cold sweat, with Bittle still blissfully passed out next to him. 

Practice today. He can’t afford to go for an early run -- he might deplete too much energy, and then he’d suck worse than normal on the ice. But he groans, getting up to at least stretch and warm up his achey muscles. He could really use a run -- the extended, continuous kind of near-marathon that steals his breath away; the kind that runs him ragged; the kind where it’s all he can do to stay awake in the shower afterward.

But he has practice today, so that bedraggling run will have to wait.

So instead he gets up, showers, and pulls his breakfast ingredients out of the fridge. He cooks and wolfs down approximately ten thousand calories just to prepare for training and practice (okay, that’s an exaggeration; but sometimes Jack doesn’t want to eat at all, so even the dense calories he chokes down feel like eating the entire grocery store, some days).

After eating, he pulls together his keys and gear, and drives to the practice rink with breakfast feeling like a cinder block in his stomach. The one bright moment is that he sees a chubby tortoiseshell stray on the way in to practice; as usual, he whips out his phone and takes a photo, sends it to Kent, and allows himself a small smile before the brutal practice to come.

Predictably, he has trouble on the ice. He fumbles badly with the puck during drills and gets so few goals past Snowy that he’s kind of amazed they aren’t already buying out his contract. 

Look, the team is doing okay. They’re fourth in the division, and its November. It’s months until they really need to worry about their percentages, months until they start gunning for the playoffs. It’s not the team who’s in trouble: It’s Jack who’s struggling, Jack who isn’t putting out the numbers he should be. But the pressure he applies to himself to be a model captain, to be a playmaker and a goal-scorer, could break elephant bones. 

A thought occurs that absolutely terrifies him: _what if they take away his captaincy?_

It isn’t unheard of. Jack wouldn’t be the first it happened to.

But he would never recover -- emotionally, mentally, maybe even physically -- if it happened.

He suddenly feels pain bloom in his stomach, and keels over involuntarily, grasping at his abdomen and stifling a howl.

“Zimmermann! What are you doing?” Branson, the assistant coach, yells after him. 

“Sorry, I just… I… I think I have… food poisoning or something,” Jack gasps.

But he knows that’s not it.

It’s the culmination of lack of sleep, food he doesn’t want, and too many emotions mixing together to absolutely ruin his stomach.

“Better not be those damn pies!” 

“Sorry, coach,” Jack grunts, but he skates to the bench, slams on his skate guards, and books it to the bathroom to puke.

The thing is, they need him. They need him not to suck, and they need him to cope; and he’s absolutely not coping, _but they need him to fucking cope._

It takes everything in him to pull himself together, rinse his mouth out, and head back to the ice to finish practice.

He shouldn’t be surprised when he gets pulled aside by the coaching staff before he can leave. He shouldn’t be offended when they keep him for extra drills with Snowy. And really, he isn’t. He’s just disappointed. 

And that reminds him of getting lectured by his parents after tough practices growing up, which makes him feel awful all over again.

He’s got to get his head back in place. He’s got to start improving out there. 

He’s going to start by confronting Bittle.

But first, he has to play a game -- at home against Chicago, who are on a long winning streak -- and he has to win.

In fact, miraculously, they do win -- with marginal help from Jack, whose goal drought gets extended by yet another game. But he does get an assist on Poots’ GWG, and it feels so good to finally be the part of the celly that actually helped score.

So good, in fact, that he decides to actually have a couple drinks when they go out that night. And that just makes him feel better.

By the time he hops out of the Lyft at home, he’s actually humming.

And he feels good.

Really, really good.

But he gets in, and all the lights are off, which can only mean that Bittle has already gone to bed.

That doesn’t stop Jack from climbing in bed and snuggling up against him, smelling his shampoo and nuzzling at his neck.

“Bittle. Hey, Bittle,” he tries to whisper, but he’s loud enough to wake him up.

“Mmm. Jack, hi,” Bittle murmurs. He smiles, but rolls away from Jack.

No! That is not how this is supposed to go.

“Bittle, c’mon, wake up,” Jack insists, rubbing his nose against the shell of Bittle’s ear.

“Go to sleep, Jack,” Bittle says, much less warmly, and swats Jack away. “I gotta get up early tomorrow.”

Jack suddenly feels a little less good.

Hmph.

Well, Parse just played in Florida. Maybe he’s up.

Jack extricates himself from their bed and meanders into the guest bathroom.

He has no excuse for what he’s about to do. No excuse.

But he just feels so good, for once, and he needs to share it with someone. If Bittle doesn’t want to be that someone, then Jack is going to look for someone else.

He opens Snapchat, but doesn’t take a photo, instead leaning on the counter and typing out a quick ‘Hey,’ sending it to Kent.

‘Hey!!!’ comes an almost immediate response. Jack’s smile glows in the light of his phone screen. ‘Sry I didnt respond about cate. She was verry beautifol!’

Jack’s confused for a moment, until he remembers that Kent can’t text to save his life when he’s drunk.

So Kent must be feeling pretty good, too.

‘What?’ he responds, laughing quietly at the keysmash.

‘Sory I ment CATe,’ comes the next chat moments later.

‘Haha’ Jack responds, assuming he’s referring to the cat snap from earlier today.

Kent’s reply comes in the form of a picture. It’s another mirror selfie, although this time Kent is definitely wearing shorts, flashing a peace sign and sporting a healthy flush.

‘V nice,’ Jack types back, honestly understanding that he’s sabotaging his relationship even further, and too far past sober to care.

‘Want mor?’ Kent offers, and Jack nods as he types back,  
‘Yes.’

The next photo takes a moment. It’s pretty similar to the first, except the shorts are gone and Kent scribbled a black mark over his face. Jack’s a little put out that Kent doesn’t trust him with a face, but on the other hand, he completely understands the need for discretion.

Still, getting a real nude from Kent would be a dream, he thinks.

Getting to be with Kent, in person, would kill him. 

Against his better judgement, he texts back, ‘you’re beautiful, it’s so unfair.’

Kent responds, ‘its yr turn, jerk!’ And Jack just has to laugh. He stifles it, lips clenched together, lest he wake Bittle up. And then he opens the camera to send a response.

The selfie isn’t much. Jack had stripped quickly, his phone balanced on the edge of the sink. He turns to the mirror and takes a selfie almost identical to Kent’s, sans peace sign, and -- again, against his better judgment, but he can't figure out how to add the scribble -- sans the markings over his face. 

_Kent took a screenshot._

_Shit! Well, what was I expecting?_ Jack thinks, huffing out a breath of air. He opens up the chat again: ‘You better lock that photo down TIGHT if you’re going to keep it.’

He’s not expecting the phone call that pops up next. Luckily, his phone is set to vibrate, and he doesn’t have to fall all over himself keeping quiet for Bittle. When he answers, he keeps his voice low:

“Hey, Parse.”

“Hey, Zimms.”

“Congrats on winning your game.”

“Yeah, you too.” Kent’s consonants are soft from the soak of alcohol. Jack finds he’s oddly, yet deeply turned on by the haze in Kent’s voice.

“What are you doing?” Jack asks, aiming for casual (and missing).

“Talkin’ to you,” Kent slurs, and Jack’s heart feels set alight. He hasn’t heard Kent speak like this since they were 18.

Jack huffs a small laugh. “Yeah, duh. But like, what did you do tonight?”

“Went to the bar after the game. Drank a li’l. I was thinkin’ about you.”

“Really,” Jack states more than he asks; it’s actually a surprise, though a pleasant one, that Kent ever thinks about him at all.

“Yeah. Thinkin’ about you gettin’ hitched.” Kent practically spits the last two words in his fake southern accent. It’s not spiteful; in fact, it’s really funny, and Jack has to stifle another laugh.

“Kent, c’mon. I’m not.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, of course not.”

“Huh,” Kent muses. It’s like he didn’t believe Jack the last time he said he doesn’t want this.

“So what are you doing now?” Jack asks quietly.

“Still talkin’ to you,” Kent answers petulantly. Jack scoffs.

“Don’t, Kenny.”

Kent just laughs. “What else should I say?”

“Are we… do you wanna…” He falters, entirely unsure how to start this kind of thing, hoping Kent will get the picture and put him out of his misery.

“Wanna what?” Kent’s voice outright flirts. And Jack can tell that Kent knows exactly what he’s getting at. But it’s Kent, so of course he’s going to make this difficult. Of course he’s going to make Jack ask for it.

“I’ve, uh,” Jack mumbles. “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

“Hmm.” Jack hears a rustle, like Kent’s moving some fabric around -- the sheets on his hotel bed, he guesses. “How so?”

“You know how so,” Jack whispers.

“I don’t,” Kent remarks, and he suddenly sounds a lot more sober than he did before.

“I’ve been thinking about how…. How much I wish I was there. With you.”

“Yeah?” Kent asks, and Jack can hear him breathing, soft and steady.

“Yeah,” Jack replies. “Thinking about… thinking about touching you.”

“How would you touch me?” Kent prompts, and Jack can’t help but think that Kent’s done this before.

“I… I don’t… um,” Jack stumbles again.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Kent reassures him. “I know this is a little weird, but I’m really turned on, okay? Just go with it. Just say what you feel.”

Jack swallows. “Okay.”

“So what would we do together?” Kent prompts again, and his consonants are soft again. “If you were here.”

“Maybe I would, um.” Jack takes a moment to consider what might actually be nice to do with Parse in real life. “I would like… I want to touch your chest.”

“Oh, that sounds nice,” Kent replies, and his voice is airier than before. “What do you like about my chest?”

“Your pecs are amazing,” Jack whispers reverently, and he strokes his cock while he thinks about the smattering of freckles across the pale expanse of skin. “I love your freckles.”

“I used to get teased about them when I was little.” It’s a fact Kent has already told Jack, but it was a long time ago, whispered across the gap between them in Jack’s childhood bed. Back when they could be together. Back when they were together, in their own kind of way.

“I want to kiss every single one,” Jack whispers, and he grows harder in his hand as he hears Kent stifle a moan.

“Mmm, baby,” Kent exhales. “Where else would you kiss me?”

“Everywhere,” Jack breathes, and he pictures it in his mind’s eye: trailing kisses across Kent’s face, placing one at the tip of his sharp nose; trailing kisses down his body; kissing, wet and sloppy, at the base of his cock. 

He tells Kent all of this, and this time, Kent doesn’t stifle his moan.

“Are you touching yourself?” Kent asks.

“Yeah,” Jack whispers, and he has to maneuver the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can cover his mouth on another groan. 

“Tell me more,” Kent commands. “Tell me how you feel, Jack.”

“I feel-- I feel-- god, Kent. I feel amazing, you’re amazing,” Jack moans, stroking himself. “I want to touch you all over. I want to suck your cock. I want to feel you inside me.”

“What do I do to you, Jack?”

“You drive me crazy, but I love it,” Jack gasps. “You make me feel… you make me want to be better, Kent, you make me want to scream your name.”

“Yes,” Kent moans back, and Jack can hear him choke back his gasps as he comes. Jack starts jerking himself harder, picturing laving his tongue over one of Kent’s pale nipples, feeling Kent’s abs beneath the pads of his fingers, and he comes all over his hand, hard, only moments after he hears Kent’s ragged breathing begin to slow.

They each take a moment to breathe and listen. 

Kent speaks first:

“Damn, Zimms.”

Jack:

“Wow. Yeah.”

Kent asks, “Do you feel better?”

And Jack replies, “Of course. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Kent parrots back. But it’s… casual. Jack isn’t sure what that tone of voice means. It almost sounds… detached?

“Are you -- how do you feel?” Jack asks sheepishly. He turns the tap on lukewarm and starts rinsing off his filthy hand, still balancing the phone on his shoulder.

“Honestly? Really great, Jack.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Jack replies fondly.

“Listen, I gotta go. It’s late as hell for me, I fucking hate this time zone and I’m gonna be really hungover as it is.”

Jack snorts, but agrees, “Yeah, I should go to bed, too.”

“‘Kay. ‘Night, Zimms.”

“Wait, wait,” Jack adds, and when the line doesn’t go dead he adds, “Can we… talk? Tomorrow?”

“Sure, Jack,” Kent responds, and his voice is overtaken by a yawn. “We’ll talk. Night?”

“Yeah, goodnight,” Jack says, smiling gently. He wishes more than anything he could hold Kent. He wants to press his forehead against Kent’s chest, wants to hear his heart beat, wants to hold his hand.

He’s still too far from sober to comprehend exactly what those thoughts mean or where they’re coming from. And he’s a little too tired to worry about it, just now. And when he finally climbs back into bed, he snuggles up to his fiancé’s warmth; but it’s not Bittle he’s thinking about sleeping next to.

Not by a long shot.


	4. how we kissed and killed each other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent wakes up alone the next morning, the sun in his eyes, memories of bruised elbows and overbearing warmth haunting him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back! here's a (slightly early) update for you!
> 
> I cannot stress how much I love this chapter. It's probably my favorite, because things get wild (aka embarrassing, for me and also for our cast) from here on out. 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter! Just good, clean fun (haha, just kidding. This fic is a garbage fire).
> 
> Love and thanks, as always, to Sam (@blazeofglory), for both the input and cheerleading. This fic would not exist without you!

For Jack’s 17th birthday, his parents take Kent and him to the cabin for a week. The days are pleasantly warm, sunny, and wet as the boys swim out to the floating dock to be alone a few times a day. There, they laugh and joke, mainly about the last season and their teammates, while parents idle a few hundred meters away on the deck or in the kitchen, well out of eye-and-earshot.

On this particular day -- Jack’s actual birthday -- it’s a time for reflection, but more importantly, a time for confession.

“Remember at that party when Laura dared Connie to kiss you?” Jack kicks his feet in the water, his shaggy hair dripping onto his shoulders.

“Yeah, and she took truth instead?”

“Because you’re disgusting!”

“No, it was because I had that fucking black eye from when we played the Sea Dogs, and she didn’t want to hurt me!”

“You wish she didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Fucking ouch, Zimms.”

“Whatever, it’s not like she didn’t try to kiss you later and you said no.”

“I wanted to kiss someone else.”

“Liar,” Jack teased. “You’d literally kiss anyone if you drank enough.”

“I wouldn’t kiss you,” Kent scoffs.

Jack feigns hurt. “Oh, so sad, how will I ever get through my life without kissing you?”

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” Kent snaps back, but he doesn’t expect the pregnant pause that follows.

Jack’s stopped laughing, and all they can hear are the bugs humming in the reeds nearer to shore.

“Would you… actually let me?” Jack asks quietly.

Kent pales beneath his sunburn. They’d played a whole season together, and he thought he knew everything about his new best friend. He’d assumed Jack was asexual, to be frank; the guy never seemed to be interested in anyone. He never went out on dates with anyone, not even pairing up in a big group; he never disappeared with a girl at any parties; what else was Kent supposed to assume?

Certainly not that Jack had feelings for… for him.

He’d never assume that.

He’d never _dream_ of that.

And yet, here they are.

“I… I guess I would,” he finally breathes, turning his head to look at Jack. “For your birthday, at least.” Jack’s already looking back, intent, his gaze landing somewhere around Kent’s nose. His eyes flick up to Kent’s for a moment, and he takes a deep breath in.

“Yeah?” He asks.

“Yeah.” Kent draws in a breath and holds it. His lips part, slightly, as if he’s going to say something else; but nothing comes to mind.

Jack kind of leans forward, but not close enough to kiss; barely even breaching Kent’s personal space. “I…” he trails off.

Kent swallows, then breathes out quickly before leaning in the rest of the way. He leans a little too fast, and his sun-baked red nose smacks into Jack’s a little too hard.

They both lean back with an awkward laugh. _Maybe this won’t happen after all_ , Kent thinks, turning away, and he’s a little put out; but then Jack grasps his chin and pulls him back in, and their chapped lips meet, and they’re kissing.

_Oh, God_ , Kent thinks. He’s kissing _Jack_.

And Jack is kissing him back.

It’s like a dream. 

When they part, Kent might be speechless for the first time in his life.

Jack tentatively lets a smile creep up onto his lips. It doesn’t last long, though, because before he can really smile, Kent kisses him again, sloppily, their teeth crashing together. Jack moans a little when Kent sticks his tongue in Jack’s mouth, and Kent grabs his hand and holds on, tight. Like a lifeline. Because he hasn’t kissed anyone like this before (not even Becca, not in the whole two months they were together and their faces almost inseparable (much to Jack’s dismay; but Kent wouldn’t know that for some time)).

When they finally come up for air, Kent grins and waits for Jack to open his eyes. When he finally does, Kent says, “Race you back to the dock!” and slides immediately into the water.

Jack, completely clueless, remains on the floater for a moment watching Kent swim. It’s not the first thing Kent ever does that Jack doesn’t understand, and it won’t be the last; but for the time being, he’s nothing but smitten. He waits for his heart to stop beating in his throat before launching himself off the raft and trying to catch up. Kent wins, of course, and when they get back to the cabin they find it empty.

Kent suggests they take advantage of the time alone. Jack isn’t sure what he means, until Kent pulls him, grinning slyly, into the bedroom they’ve been sharing, pushes him down on one of the twin beds, and straddles him.

They don’t do much other than kiss, but Kent rewards Jack plentifully for being the one to make the first move. He doesn’t even tease Jack for coming in his swimsuit.

He does tease Jack, though, for immediately, frantically leaping to the ensuite to wash away the evidence.

For the rest of the trip they cram themselves into one twin bed at night, simply for the joy of waking up next to each other. Tangled together, they spend each sunrise sharing morning kisses -- morning breath and all. Two growing boys is a recipe for falling out of said twin bed regularly, bruising elbows and knees fairly easily; but neither one wants to leave when they curl up into each other at night. So they take the bruises in stride.

Nowadays, Kent usually wakes up alone. On the off chance that there’s someone in his bed, the bed is big enough that they rarely wake up tangled together.

It’s been a while since being in love has been a physical hazard.

What hasn’t been unusual -- and which he would hardly call being in love -- is his daily talks and nightly calls with Jack.

He’s given up asking Jack when he’s going to talk to his fiancé about this. Honestly, he could care less about the fiancé, which means he feels zero guilt when it comes to Jack volunteering, eagerly, to get him off every night.

His team is starting to notice that something’s up, though.

“You seeing someone or something?” Swoops asks, ever-blunt, when he smiles a little too wide at his phone one mid-December day. Jack tried to take a selfie with one of the street cats, a silvery tabby sitting on a snowy fence, cleaning its face and completely ignoring the camera. Jack’s flushed, pink face is halfway between a smile and a grimace, blurry as the phone obviously slipped in his probably-frozen hand. It’s a hideous picture.

And the doofus sent the snap anyway.

“Nah,” Kent replies coolly, the picture disappearing before Swoops can peer over Kent’s shoulder and see what it was.

“That’s an awfully big smile for ‘nah,’” Swoops insists, following Kent down the hall to the parking lot.

“You wanna get burritos?” Kent asks, fully ignoring his closest friend.

“I knew it. You’re dating someone,” Swoops prods, poking a sharp fingertip into Kent’s shoulder.

Kent makes a face and swats at him. “Fine, I won’t buy you burritos.”

“Not important,” Swoops replies. “What’s important is, _who is the guy_?”

“There’s no guy,” Kent rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“I know you too well, dude. I’ve been seeing that face since rookie year, you can’t hide it from me.”

“No, you haven’t, because rookie year I wasn’t over Jack.”

Swoops stops in his tracks.

“No.”

Kent heaves a sigh and jams a baseball cap on his head, averting his eyes.

“No!”

“Would you get in the fucking car?” Kent snaps, yanking the driver door open and slamming it shut behind him. Swoops opens the passenger door, but only leans down (he’s too fucking tall) and peers inside over the rims of his sunglasses.

“Kent motherfucking Parson.”

“That’s my name.”

“That is not your name.” His next sentence is at least a little hushed, thank god. “You’re dating Jack Zimmermann, aren’t you?”

“Get in the goddamn car, Swoops.”

“It’s true!”

“IT IS NOT TRUE.”

“Then why are you freaking out?!”

“I am not freaking out!” Kent says, but he says it all too fast, and he knows, _shit_ , he’s been found out.

Fuck, he didn’t even last a month.

Swoops finally gets into the car, a smug grin plastered on his face. “So tell me all about your little romance with Zimms.”

“Do _not_.”

“Oh, Ziiiiimms, I looooove you,” Swoops’ voice takes on a much higher octave than Kent’s ever heard. He makes his hands into lips and makes them kiss each other, singing, “Mwah mwah mwah mwah.” 

“You’re embarrassing,” Kent grunts, but he’s bright red under the brim of his hat.

“ _You’re_ dating your ex!”

“I’m not!” Kent hisses, yet again. “We’re just fucking, okay? And not even that, he’s just using me to get over some, I don’t know, emotional obstacle with his fiancé--”

“He’s getting MARRIED?!” Swoops yells, and Kent buries his face in his hands.

***

“Kent, I hate to tell you this, but this whole thing is deeply uncool,” Swoops claims around a mouthful of beef burrito. 

“I know, shut up.” Kent flips through channels on his TV, completely ignoring his post-practice carboload. “I don’t know why I’m doing it, okay? It’s just nice to get off on a regular basis.”

“No kidding,” Swoops agrees, who just got married over the summer. “I’ve never missed being at home so much.”

“So don’t lecture me, maybe?” Kent suggests with a sigh.

“Oh, you’re getting a lecture. Kent, this is fucked up.” Swoops finally swallows, not stopping for air before diving back into the food. “You can’t fuck a married man, dude.”

“Okay, A., don’t talk with your mouth full, you fucking philistine. B., I’m not technically fucking him, and C., he’s not married.”

“Insignificant details.” Swoops does take a break before taking another bite, to his credit. “And c’mon, ‘philistine?’ This isn’t Scrabble.”

“Sorry. Zimms is rubbing off on me.”

“Heyyo,” Swoops yells, and holds his hand up for a high five. Kent does not indulge him.

“Why do you have such a problem with this, anyway? Is it because it’s him?” Kent slumps against the couch.

“Partially. But also because it’s fucked up,” Swoops says, his mouth full yet again.

“Your face is fucked up,” Kent retorts, and he knows it’s weak, but he says it anyway.

“But like, you’re gonna fall for him, and he’s going to break your heart again, and I’m gonna have to pick up the pieces, again.”

“Please, you’ve only had to do it once.”

“Once is too many times, Parser.”

“C’mon, Jeff, it’s not going to come to that,” Kent scoffs.

“And you know this how?”

“Because I literally do not give a fuck this time,” he states breezily. “Jack doesn’t love me, I don’t love him, it’s all good. It’s honestly fine, I promise.”

“But you said he’s not getting married.”

“Okay, look. That’s what he says, but I know him. He’s going to get over the anxiety, he’s going to do it, and he’s going to forget about me. This is just a blip in a long timeline of fucked up shit between us.”

“That’s dark, bro.”

Kent just shrugs again.

“It’s just life.”

***

One thing that Kent would never tell anyone, especially Swoops, is that he actually doesn’t know Jack anymore. Like, at all.

He knows what Jack says, and what Jack does, but the guy who came out by kissing his boyfriend on live TV? The guy who’s cheating on that boyfriend? Kent doesn’t have a clue who that guy is.

And he’s fine with it. No one needs to convince Kent that this is a bad idea, but no one needs to convince him that it could end badly, either. He’s prepared for the eventuality of the situation.

So when Jack calls that night, Kent’s as cool as he can be.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Jack asks, again completely failing to sound nonchalant.

“Hanging out with Swoops and his wife, Sarah, in Alberta. You know Swoops? Jeff Troy?”

“I know of him, yeah,” Jack replies, and he sounds… is that jealousy?

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Zimms?” Kent asks wryly, and Jack huffs out a breath of air in response.

“‘Course not. You’re allowed to have friends, Kent.”

“You spending it with your husband or your parents?”

Jack sighs. “Both, actually, and he’s not my husband.”

“Yet,” Kent murmurs, and takes a sip of his beer.

“C’mon, Kenny, knock it off. I’m not getting married.”

“Sure, Zimms,” Kent says, but he does blush wildly at Jack’s use of his old nickname.

“Not to Bittle, anyway.”

_What’s that supposed to mean?_

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kent asks, but he hears movement, and a voice, and Jack suddenly whispers,

“Shit, I, uh, I gotta go.” Then, louder, “See you at family skate, Tater!” And the line goes dead.

So no hookup tonight, Kent guesses, and downs the rest of his drink. He tosses it in the recycling and goes to get ready for bed.

While brushing his teeth, he hears his text ringtone from the nightstand.

He picks it up a few minutes later to read, “Sorry, Bittle was on a trip back home and came home early. He surprised me, but it’s all good. Do you want me to call when he’s asleep?”

Kent’s eyes go wide. Is Jack really that dedicated to this… whatever this is?

“Nah, get some sleep,” he texts back. “You’ll need it for your game tomorrow.” He then turns his phone on Do Not Disturb so he won’t be tempted to change his mind.

Kent wakes up alone the next morning, the sun in his eyes, memories of bruised elbows and overbearing warmth haunting him.

The Falconers come to Vegas in three weeks.

Kent doesn’t know what to feel about it.

Kent decides not to let himself feel anything about it at all.


	5. the winds of regret and mistrust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YIKES I'm sorry for posting late! I just started a new job and my brain has been reduced to mush. I hope you can forgive me.
> 
> CW For alcohol abuse in this chapter. I won't spoil anything now, but I will add an end note to explain where I'm coming from with this chapter (I don't see a lot of alcohol abuse in check please fics/jack centric stuff, and I understand why, but I made a choice with this chapter and I'm sticking to it).
> 
> Thank you all SO MUCH for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! This fic already feels so loved and I appreciate it all more than you know. 
> 
> I hope you continue to enjoy!

Jack finally breaks his month-long goal drought in the last game before Christmas, Falconers vs. Schooners at home ice.

He’s so glad that he honestly feels his eyes welling up during the celly, which is an odd sensation when he’s also being crushed in all directions by gigantic hockey players.

It’s a tie game with three minutes left until the final buzzer, and Jack manages to get the puck on a breakaway, and he’s absolutely skating for his life. He slaps the puck; the goalie slams his legs shut; and in what seems like a miracle, the puck sails over his right leg and into the net.

Jack roars. It’s the only way to describe the absolutely feral sound that escapes his lungs. And he hears it echoing around the arena, the fans ecstatic -- but not as ecstatic as Jack. Never as ecstatic as Jack.

Kent has the night off. Jack hopes to god he’s watching.

***

The bar Kent’s in is playing the game, but he isn’t paying much attention.

He’s playing pool and losing, badly.

Hallsy is kicking his ass, but he just so happens to be at the bar getting another mai tai ( _so sue me_ , he’ll always say to Scraps, who has opinions on what everyone drinks) when Zimms gets the puck…

And he chuckles to himself when it goes into the net.

Finally, Zimms is going to have something to be proud of, instead of whining to Kent on the phone. It was a nice goal, too, so Kent will have to congratulate him.

He grabs his drink, saunters back to the pool table, and hits a scratch. _Guess we can’t all win tonight_ , he thinks, smirk fading slightly.

***

Jack had issues with pills in the Q.

He’ll admit that.

(Everyone important knows about it, anyway.)

But he’s done a really, really good job of staying on the wagon as far as the pills are concerned. And when he drinks, it’s very much in moderation.

But every so often -- very occasionally -- rarely, in fact -- he has a reason to celebrate, and he’ll drink a little more than usual.

Tonight, he drinks a lot.

He feels very safe, is the thing. Back in the Q, if Jack ended up blacked out, face down in a snowdrift halfway between here and Halifax, no one would have given two shits (well, no one except for Kent).

But now he has Tater, Snowy, Poots, and George, and then rookies - Stevie, Linds, and Andrei (who defies nicknaming convention, much like Jack himself) - and they take care of him.

So tonight, he drinks a lot, because he wants to celebrate and he has a reason to, damn it.

Providence has never seen Jack Zimmermann quite so... well, wasted. The party ends up back at Tater’s, half because every bar in town is closing, and half because the guys - who have inherited vet status - really don’t want any photos of red-faced, slack-grinned Jack Zimmermann making the rounds on hockey twitter.

It turns out to be a smart move, until Snowy shoots Bittle a snap with the caption, “get a load of your man!” 

Then there is a deluge of photos. They may not end up on twitter, but they end up in Eric Bittle’s Snapchat inbox, and he is something a little south of pleased. 

Here’s Jack dancing and singing along terribly to Journey. That’s kind of cute, but did he have to drink so much? Here’s Jack kissing Snowy on the cheek. Okay, fine. Here’s Jack furtively texting in the background of a photo of flip cup, a fond smile on his face…

But Bittle has received nothing from Jack since before the game.

And he knows that smile.

And suddenly, Bittle is more than displeased: he’s livid.

“Keep him there tonight, he’d just ralph if you put him in a cab,” Bittle says lightly to Alexei on the phone. “I’ll deal with him tomorrow, okay? Thanks, Tater.” He jabs the red button and gets back to beating the living daylights out of a mound of dough.

Later, Jack crashes unceremoniously into the nightstand in Tater’s guest room. He swears, and tumbles onto the bed. He’s washed his mouth out with mouthwash, hoping he won’t puke and have to do it again, but he’s dizzy enough that there’s a real need for the garbage bin next to the bed. _Don’t puke don’t puke don’t puke_ , he wills to himself, and flops onto his back to watch the ceiling spin.

He opens his phone and finds a veritable barrage of texts from Bittle. He groans; he realizes he forgot to call back after Bittle’s traditional after-game phone call, and he knows his boyfriend -- _fiancé_ , fuck -- is going to be furious tomorrow. He probably won’t be awake, but Jack fumbles around and manages to call him anyway.

It, predictably, goes to voicemail.

“Bittle, it’s me,” Jack slurs. “I’m so sorry, I just -- I was really happy after the game, and I’m sorry I missed your call. I’m sorry. See you tomorrow. I’m sorry. Goodnight. Sorry.”

He ends the call and then tackles the rest of his texts.

There are a few from his parents -- he can ignore those -- and a few from the team, meant for him to wake up to, so they can also wait. 

There’s only one from Kent.

_Congrats on ending the curse_ , it reads. _Get ready to get your ass kicked in Vegas._

He doesn’t even think before he opens Kent’s contact and calls him.

It rings. And rings. And rings.

_Damn it_ , Jack thinks. He is _not_ leaving a voicemail.

But Parse doesn’t pick up; instead Jack hears, for the first time, an answering machine message.

“‘Sup, you’ve reached Kent at 7--”

Jack hangs up and tries again.

Kent answers on the third ring. He sleepily demands, “What d’you want, Zimms?” 

“Kenny,” Jack breathes. “I did it, I scored, I’m not gonna get booted from the team.”

“What the fuck, Jack,” Kent laughs. “No one is going to trade you.”

“But what if,” Jack groans. “What if they were thinking about it.” 

“Jack!” Kent barks. “They were not thinking about it, and you know it.”

“What if I wasn’t gonna be captain anymore.”

“Jack, shut up, you’re always gonna be captain.”

“Kent, you can’t know that and neither can I!” Jack protests, but even he hears how ridiculous he sounds through the sheer curtain of beer and vodka.

“Jack, I’m going to hang up,” Kent threatens, and Jack finally relents.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”

“Good, now go to bed.”

“Wait,” Jack pleads.

Kent heaves a sigh. “What?”

“Are we gonna see each other in Vegas?”

“Of course, buddy. We have to play a game? Your team versus my team?”

“No, I mean, like. Are we going to… hang out or anything?”

Kent pauses. “Sure, yeah. We can do that.”

“Really?” Jack breathes. He sounds relieved, but what would he ever have been worried about?

Of course Kent would see him.

His eyes begin to feel heavy, drooping closed, and his mouth moves more or less of its own accord as he begins to drift off.

“Of course,” Kent reassures him. “But Jack, my man, it is 3:30 AM there and you need to sleep this off.”

“Okay, Kenny.”

“Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight, Kenny.”

“Go to sleep, Jack.”

“I love you.”

Jack’s breathing is so slow. There’s no way he’s awake anymore.

Right?

“Jack?”

There’s no answer, just the soft snores next to the speaker of Jack’s phone.

Kent hangs up. He can feel his heart thudding, pounding in his chest. It feels a few sizes too large, and he has trouble breathing for a moment.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

Okay, so Jack was drunk. That’s a strike.

And he was practically -- maybe literally -- asleep. That’s another strike. 

And Kent is absolutely not interested in love from Jack Zimmermann, so that’s a third strike.

So Kent can pretend that didn’t happen, and things are going to be perfectly fine.

Still, when Jack texts him good morning (at 2 PM the next afternoon), he takes his damn precious time to respond.

***

Jack returns home that afternoon, dizzy and queasy and feeling dry as a bone in the desert. 

Bittle is in the kitchen, drinking coffee and flipping through a magazine.

“Hey,” Jack greets quietly, and toes his shoes off in the entryway.

Bittle doesn’t acknowledge him, and Jack immediately knows he’s done something wrong.

“Okay, Bittle, I surrender,” he says, and when Bittle finally looks up, there’s nothing short of fury in his wide brown eyes.

“Jack, what were you doing last night?” he snaps, and Jack flinches slightly.

“I was celebrating, Bittle.”

“But drinking like that? What were you thinking?”

“I don’t need permission to drink, Bittle.”

“But you’ve worked so hard not to be like this!” Bittle retorts, and Jack’s eyes blow wide.

“Like what, exactly?” He crosses his arms over his chest, his already rumpled game day suit crinkling even more under the gesture.

“Like how you’re not returning my calls! Like how you’re skulking in corners texting someone else!”

“I apologized about the call, Bits! And I wasn’t -- I didn’t text anyone -- what are you talking ab--”

“Hardly, you slurred a mess into my voicemail and now you’re arguing with me about it. Plus, you can’t just not tell me who you were texting when you ignored me. I got a snap from Snowy and you were clearly texting someone in it. I’m your fiancé, Jack! Don’t lie to me!”

“Okay! But I can’t talk to you when you’re like this!”

“You don’t get to do that! You don’t get to decide that we won’t talk about this! ” Bittle retorts, and Jack drags his hands down his face.

“Bittle, I’m honestly very sorry, and I promise I’ll make it up to you, but right now I’m two seconds away from vomiting and I have the biggest headache since Samwell,” Jack states, deadly quiet, and Bittle finally relents.

He exhales sharply, then says, “fine, Jack. We’ll talk later. Go get some rest. But we’re not done with this. I want to know who you were texting.” 

Jack shuts his eyes so that Bittle won’t see him roll them. He knows there’s no use denying it, but he can’t let the truth come out in anger, so he lies: “It was my dad, Bits. I was texting my dad.”

Bittle doesn’t look convinced. He purses his lips before replying, “If you insist, Jack.” He turns back to his magazine, and Jack can feel the anger radiating off of him.

Jack storms to the bedroom and rips off his clothes, leaving them in a heap on the chair in the corner. He crawls under the covers, still fuming, but can’t stay awake much longer. He passes out unceremoniously and sleeps through the day; Bittle, after deciding Jack isn’t about to wake up and apologize, tosses the celebratory pie he had baked last night into the trash.

They leave for Christmas in Montreal tomorrow, and Bittle has never felt less secure in his relationship than at this very moment.

_Who even is he anymore?_ He begins to wonder as he furiously flips through the magazine, not even looking at its contents. Ever since Bittle started talking about the wedding, Jack has been so... different.

But Jack would tell him if he didn’t want to get married. Wouldn’t he?

Later, Bittle changes into his pajamas hastily and climbs into bed next to Jack. They have to be up early, and he’s going to make sure at least one of them is up on time.

***

Bittle is quiet in the morning. Jack finds himself navigating around him as if on eggshells, making sure not to do or say anything to break the tension, lest he break it in a bad way.

They load their bags up into Bittle’s truck, and he drives them to the airport in silence. No radio, even; and Jack knows he’s in trouble. What he doesn’t know is how to fix it.

Finally, Bittle asks: “So what were you texting your dad about that had you smiling like that?”

Jack swallows. He knows this is his chance. He can admit the truth, and Bittle will be furious, and they can part ways, and he can even buy Bittle a plane ticket to spend Christmas with his own family back home. It all sounds possible, easy even, in the split second it takes him to formulate the plan. 

But he can’t do it. Not while Bittle is at the wheel; not when he’s already so angry. 

“I was, uh, just telling him we… have a surprise for him,” Jack says, quiet and calm as he can will himself to be.

“Oh!” Bittle says, brightening immediately. “You want to tell them about the engagement?”

“Um,” Jack says, and Bittle launches into a tirade about everything he wants to tell them. 

“Oh, Jack,” he enthuses, “that’s awesome, I’m so excited! It’ll be such a nice time if we don’t have to hide the secret!”

And Jack mentally slaps himself over and over and over again. 

When they get through security, Jack stakes a claim for themselves in the terminal while Bittle   
wanders off to find coffee and reading material. He furtively texts Kent, eyes glued in the direction Bittle left in:

SOS. FOR REAL THIS TIME

But Kent doesn’t respond. It’s just as well; it’s about 5:30 AM in Vegas, and Jack didn’t text him yesterday, so he doesn’t know when Kent plans to leave with Swoops. 

He very slowly sips at the coffee Bittle brings, and doesn’t touch the pastry. He doesn’t think his stomach can handle all the stress and food on top, and he’d rather not spend the flight vomiting in the claustrophobia-inducing plane bathroom. 

After they board, Bittle promptly weaves his fingers into Jack’s hand and falls asleep, his head resting on Jack’s shoulder. Jack thinks he can’t possibly make a very good pillow, with how stiff he is, but doesn’t wake Bittle.

Halfway through the flight, Bittle wakes on his own. “Jack, you’re shaking,” he comments, and pulls off his jacket to drape across Jack’s legs (it would be far too small to drape across his shoulders), assuming Jack’s cold.

Quite the opposite, Jack feels like he’s overheating. He’s sweating profusely beneath his fleece, but he accepts the jacket with a smile and lets Bittle settle back onto his shoulder. 

They finally land in Montreal, and Jack takes the bulk of the baggage, letting Bittle handle the carry-on luggage. His parents are waiting, and with them a whole lot of explaining that he’s not ready to do.

He steels himself for both the cold and the oncoming parental love as they exit the airport, squinting in the morning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So about the CW: there's a lot to be said about Jack and alcohol and me making the choice to write him drinking too much in this one, but I don't take the time to dissect it all in this fic (sorry). Jack falling off the wagon is something I've wanted to write for a long time, but I think his transgression in this chapter doesn't really amount to all that. Therefore, it just happens without too much of a fallout. I understand if this seems nonsensical, since in canon, Jack seems to be stone cold sober, but since when do I write anything related to canon? yyyyyyyeah.


	6. a good man for someone else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not the end of the universe if Bittle wants to tell his parents about the engagement. It might be the end of the universe when he has to call it off. He tries not to think about how heartbroken his mother would be. The thought sits like a stone in his empty stomach, and despite the lack of food he still feels queasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELP here's another chapter! Surprise! I didn't want to wait a full week to post this one because I'm really interested in hearing what people think about this part in the fic. I have several more chapters written, but this is as far as I've edited, so just a warning that I'm not sure I'll be sticking to a solid update schedule after this. Sorry sorry. I'll do my best, though!
> 
> SO MANY THANKS to those of you who keep coming back week after week to read this. I'm in love with all of you, and every week I think you're going to get sick of this and drop off, but every week I'm pleasantly surprised to learn that this terrible portrayal of beloved characters is actually something people want to read. I'm so geeked that you want to share this with me, and I hope that you continue to like it, even though things are about to get a bit complicated.
> 
> Onwards! <3

Jack hugs his parents outside of the airport, and huffs when Bob claps a hand on his shoulder. “Lookin’ a little peaky, kid,” he jokes, and Jack makes the barest effort at a smile. He sees a knowing glint in Bob’s eye -- the phrase “you can’t hide a thing” rattles around in Jack’s brain -- but he just makes an excuse.

“I’m just tired. It was an early wake up time for the flight.”

“Well, let’s get you home and set up and we’ll see how you feel after a little breakfast.”

Alicia finally lets go of Bittle and crowds Jack, crowing adoringly at her son. “Oh, Jack, it’s just been too long,” she says, her giant blue eyes threatening to tear up. “Look at you! You’re so... oh. _Thin_.”

Jack lets out a strained laugh and says, “yeah, we’ve been doing a lot of cardio work in training and I’ve been --”

“Of course, of course,” Alicia intones, now shooing the boys into the back seat, as a chorus of car horns and beeps surround them. “You’ll have to tell us all about it on the way home.”

Jack does no such thing, preferring to let Bittle steer the conversation. He chatters wildly about his excitement for the holiday, the most recent conversation he had with Coach and Suzanne, and manages to fit a hundred other anecdotes into the short car ride back to the Zimmermann’s.

They clamber into the front hall, knocking snow off of boots and peeling out of jackets. It reminds Jack a little bit of when he was a kid, going out to play in the vast piles of snow and losing layer after layer when finally it was time to come inside. Of course, his parents and Bittle didn’t join him as a child. He wonders if that’s where he would rather be right now -- alone.

He excuses himself and gets busy bringing the bags up to his room. He can hear the three members of his current family still conversing from downstairs, their animated voices wafting up from the kitchen off the foyer.

Rather than join, he gives himself a moment to sit and breathe. _You can do this_ , he thinks. _You can get through this trip, and then you can figure things out at home._ It’s not the end of the universe if Bittle wants to tell his parents about the engagement. It might be the end of the universe when he has to call it off. He tries not to think about how heartbroken his mother would be. The thought sits like a stone in his empty stomach, and despite the lack of food he still feels queasy.

He pulls his phone out, and finally takes it off airplane mode. After a moment, he receives a few texts, mostly teammates and Shitty checking in that he made it back home safely.

He does have a response from Kent, but it’s not what he had hoped for.

Kent: Sorry Zimms, this is a 24/7 family affair. I can’t get away to talk. Good luck.

Jack doesn’t know why he thought Kent would always be available to him. Now that he isn’t, Jack feels isolated in a way he hasn’t felt since…

Well, since the hospital. All those years ago.

He can’t think of a single person he can call. Even Lardo and Shits are off the list -- one of them might feel obligated tell Bittle if he admits he’s been fucking around with Kent. And he has to be the one to tell Bittle himself, he knows he has to be. But the secret’s eating him alive, and he can’t bring it up now. He just can't.

But now he can’t say anything until they get back to Providence; he can't destroy this when he’s home with his family. He clenches his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe deeply, lest he start to dry heave and have to escape to the bathroom.

He hears a knock at the door. “Everything okay, kiddo?” his dad asks, looking like he’s trying to stifle concern.

“Yeah,” Jack exhales. ”Just a little carsick, I guess.”

“All right,” Bob replies softly. “When you’re ready, there’s coffee and pancakes downstairs.”

“Right behind you,” Jack calls as Bob turns to leave. He can barely stomach the idea of pancakes right now, but he takes another breath, steels himself, and follows close behind his dad.

***

“So, Jack,” Alicia says, not paying much attention to cutting her pancakes. “Eric tells us you have a surprise.”

Jack chokes on his bite. He coughs, grabbing his coffee mug to try to wash the lump down his throat. But he can’t stop coughing, even when his throat is miraculously cleared.

“Oh, honey! Are you okay?” Bittle frets, patting Jack on the back. Jack just nods and tries to gulp down more coffee, wheezing.

“Yeah, yeah,” he splurts. “Why don’t you tell them, though?”

“Oh, really, Jack?” Bittle sounds elated. “Okay, but I’ll wait til you can breathe!”

Jack is not going to be able to breathe steadily anytime soon, but he puts forth his best effort. He schools his expression into a placid smile, but Bittle is preoccupied with the reveal anyway:

“We’re engaged!” he enthuses, beaming wildly at Jack’s parents.

Alicia gasps and immediately begins tearing up, clapping one hand over her mouth and the other over her heart. Bob smiles warmly, and rises to shake Bittle’s hand, who also stands, keeping his other hand on Jack’s shoulder. Jack then stands as well, giving his dad a handshake and then a hug. Alicia rushes to join, bringing all three of the men into her arms (though they don't really fit).

“Oh, my god, you have to tell us all of your plans,” she enthuses, wiping a tear from her eye. “I want to know venues, dates, the works!”

“I brought my binder with all the options!” Bittle gushes, and the two of them scurry off to pore over it, leaving Jack and Bob alone in the kitchen, breakfast forgotten.

“So, engaged, huh?” Bob asks, scrutinizing Jack a little more than Jack’s comfortable with.

“Yep,” he says, and he wishes his voice didn’t sound so hollow.

“You seem… excited?” he asks, tone wary.

“I’m… well,” Jack replies, and his gaze falls to the floor.

“Why don’t we go grab some skates?” his dad suggests, and Jack nods, eager for something else to do.

***

Jack can’t concentrate, and Bob easily hands him his own ass on the ice. (Not that he’s keeping score, of course.) Jack tries to shoot the puck between the cones that make up their makeshift goal, but Bob flies in from the side and steals it away.

Jack swears under his breath, and unfortunately, Bob hears it.

“You seem… not yourself, Jack,” he comments, skating over easily to where Jack’s leaning on his stick, head bowed.

“Uh,” Jack replies, not looking up. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Listen, son,” Bob sighs. “You know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, right?”

“Is it that obvious?” Jack murmurs, wanting to melt into the ice if even his dad can tell. He finally looks up, trying to gauge Bob’s thoughts by his face.

“I’m a little surprised Eric hasn’t noticed.”

“He’s pretty involved in the planning,” Jack admits. “And with the season going… how it’s going, I’ve barely been home.”

Bob murmurs appreciatively. “How did you propose?”

“I didn’t,” Jack replies, his voice quiet.

“Oh.” Bob sounds surprised. “How did he propose?”

“He didn’t.”

“ _Oh_.”

“Yeah. So…. I guess I just…. I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know if I’m just not ready? I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”

“Have you tried talking to him about it?”

“He’s actually really mad at me right now.”

“Because of the cold feet?”

“Because I’ve been… talking to someone else. Bittle’s, well, maybe kind of caught on.”

“Really.” Bob sounds thoroughly unimpressed with his son, and Jack is as miserable as he's ever been.

Jack doesn't elaborate, so Bob prompts him. " _Jack_." 

Jack can’t tell Bittle, but he has to tell someone. He has to tell someone.

“Dad, it’s Kent.”

“Oh!” Jack is absolutely blown away by the pleasant surprise in his dad’s voice. “I always liked Kent, you know.” The complete 180 in his dad’s attitude feels like a slap, but Jack forces himself to recover quickly.

“Yeah, I know,” Jack murmurs. “But it’s so…. I haven’t told Bittle the truth, and I know I have to, and it’s killing me, but it’s so hard, and --”

“Hey, hey,” Bob says calmly. “Slow down, Jack. I don’t know if you want my advice, but I’m glad you’re actually telling me all this. It wasn’t long ago you wouldn’t trust me with anything.”

Jack just nods.

“But listen, kiddo: you have to figure out what it is you want, and you have to be honest. Not only with Eric, but with yourself, too. That's not so hard, is it?”

“I don’t know,” Jack moans. “He’s just so happy, and I can’t... I can't take that away from him.”

“Jack, if he really loves you, he’s not going to be happy if you’re not. You know, I’ve been married for a long time, and it’s... difficult, sometimes. I love your mother, _so_ much, and I’m sure it’s even more difficult if you’re not really in love.” He almost says that last line like a question, as if to clarify that he’s hearing what Jack’s implying correctly.

"But if he really loves me, shouldn't I, I dunno, be there for him?"

"Jack, if you don't want this, it's going to be harder and harder to leave the longer you wait. You... don't want this, do you?"

Jack pauses. Can he even admit it? He swallows, and then forces himself to say, "I guess I don't."

"Look, if you can admit that to yourself, then you can figure out a way to admit it to him, too."

“Yeah,” is all Jack can think to say. “Okay, Dad.”

“I love you, Jack,” he adds. Then he adds, “You’ll say hey to Kent for me, won’t you?”

“Later,” Jack says, suppressing a groan. There is no greater bromance than the one between Bob and Kent Parson, and Jack almost -- _almost_ \-- regrets bringing Kent back into his life for that very reason. “He says he’s going to be too busy to talk over Christmas.”

Bob guffaws, and Jack has to smile along. 

“And Dad?” 

“Yes?”

“I… I love you, too.” 

Bob reaches out to ruffle Jack’s hair, then drops the puck back on to the ice. He takes off with it before Jack has time to react, and Jack smiles a little to himself before launching across the ice after him.

***

Jack doesn’t think Bob tells Alicia his secret during the visit, judging by the way she and Bittle spend the whole time fawning over the contents of his wedding binder. 

Christmas actually passes rather uneventfully, save for the oppressive phantom of the wedding hanging in the air. Every time Bittle or Alicia mentions it, Jack finds an excuse to escape and commiserate with Bob, whether over tape, talking about his teammates, or letting Bob reminisce. Bittle and Alicia roll their eyes, content to continue talking menu options and whether Bittle will bake the cake himself.

“I might just do a couple’s cake, and have the caterers do dessert for the guests,” Bittle muses aloud. “That’s very in vogue right now!”

“Oh, and you could easily bake a small cake the day before!” Alicia agrees, pointing out decorations she particularly likes when he turns the page.

Bob harrumphs, motioning for Jack to join him in the study.

Jack gladly follows, hoping for a taste of his dad’s favorite whiskey. He’s not disappointed.

What is disappointing, however, is Bittle’s newfound enthusiasm for the wedding after the visit.

He’s invigorated, in fact, and Jack is newly nervous about when -- and how -- he’s going to call it all off. Needless to say, when he resumes practice, he has a new energy that he channels completely into his play, and the coaching staff -- and his teammates -- are extremely pleased with the results.

In the short weeks leading up to Vegas, the Falcs have a remarkable run, and Jack establishes himself firmly on the other side of his troubled streak. He almost wants to call up the sports networks that had gossiped about him just to gloat.

Even more exciting to Jack is how impressed Kent seems to be. He texts and congratulates Jack after every game, sending him something special -- ‘special’ here meaning ‘lewd’ -- every time Jack scores a goal or two. Which is often, _finally_ \-- and Jack feels his heart swell every time.

So Jack is absolutely buzzing with excitement by the time he loads onto the bus at the arena, destined for the airport and a plane to Las Vegas. He bids a hasty goodbye to Bittle before takeoff, and shoots a quick, dry joke to Kent before turning off his phone.

He’s so close to seeing Kent. So close to proving himself on Kent’s home ice, and so close to _touching_ him afterward.

He counts the hours -- a mere eighteen -- until puck drop.


	7. every night i live and die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vegas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the moment you've been waiting for! (I mean, maybe.) 
> 
> Vegas, baby! (I'm extremely corny, but you already knew that.)
> 
> CW for this chapter: mild d/s, choking, and dubcon because of alcohol use. I'm not sure what else to add, except that I tried to write this a little differently than how I usually write porn. It's not extreme, but if you're familiar with my fics, it might seem new. (if you have concerns, please shoot me a note via lvmi.tumblr.com.)
> 
> Also, this chapter is almost 5k and previous chapters have averaged about 2k. I hope you don't mind??
> 
> Anyway! Please enjoy! Thanks as always for reading and commenting, and of course a special thank you to Sam (@blazeofglory) who both beta'd this chapter and without whom this fic would not exist.<3

Jack’s stomach is absolutely roiling. He paces his room, game day suit already donned, checking his phone again and again as the minutes tick by until the game. The whole time he ventures downstairs, loads onto the bus, and pulls in to the arena lot, he only has one thing on his mind:

He has to do his absolute best tonight. There is no room for error. There is no room for Jack to be…. Well, Jack. He cannot let his anxiety get in the way of doing the best he possibly can tonight.

As captain, it’s his duty -- his job, even -- to check in with the team and make sure they’re ready to play. The other guys all seem fine, energetic, and ready to go. So Jack tries his level best to force a smile, force his stomach to calm down, and give the pep talk of his life -- if not for his team, then for himself.

Miraculously, the good nature of the team is infectious, and by the time he skates out onto the ice, his nerves are strangely quiet. Something cosmic shifts into place, because for once in his life, Jack Zimmermann isn’t anxious. He isn’t nervous. He isn’t going to play like shit, that’s for sure.

While skating circuits around the rink, Jack of course scans the ice, squinting through the annoying strobe lighting for his opposing team’s captain. He finally spots Kent, who stopped to talk with their goalie. His name is Travers, and he’s a newer acquisition to the team, having been traded over the summer before. Jack rips his eyes away when Kent looks across the ice himself, zoning in on Jack. Jack will never know how Kent can send shocks into him with just a moment’s look, but it’s enough. Jack feels like he’s on fire.

That feeling doesn’t subside. After the cheesy pre-show, anthem, and some formalities, it’s finally time for the game to begin. When Jack makes eye contact with Kent again, this time across the circle at puck drop, Kent’s grin digs deep into him, and he knows -- he _knows_ \-- he has to win tonight.

But that moment of distraction is enough for Kent to seize the puck and launch it backwards, and the game has begun, and Jack is already behind. He curses, but with a burst of energy, follows an Aces left wing down the ice and around the goal. Number 28 shoots it out to 35 -- Hall to Alexander -- who in turn tries to slap it into the goal, but without success, as Snowy leaps to the right and slaps his glove down.

Jack’s first shift is uneventful, and he retires to the bench grousing about his lack of contact with the puck. Luckily, Linds gets the puck on a breakaway and scores, putting the Falconers on the board first. Jack cheers and slams his glove against Linds’s along with the rest of the team, but the excitement is short lived: before the end of the period, the Aces get a powerplay, and Kent scores his first goal of the night while the Falcs are down a man.

Jack seethes, sucking on his teeth when Kent flies by, grinning. He winks at the camera behind Jack, but Jack knows it was really to tease him. Kent just works that way.

Jack has another shift where he doesn’t manage to score, but he gets a couple shots in just out of spite. The shitty thing is, Travers is really good, surprisingly fast and limber for his size, and Jack almost -- almost -- lets himself get psyched up when Kent skates by, obviously laughing, when one of Jack’s shots lands directly in Travers’s glove.

The Falcs don’t score again that period. In the locker room, Jack bounces from player to player, giving each of his guys a tiny pep talk and a good whack on the shoulder before taking a private moment to talk himself back into shape. 

_You’ve beat Kent before, and you can do it again._

_He’s only laughing and winking and shit to rile you up. You can’t let it work._

_You won’t let it work._

_You’re going to win this. You can show him, you can show all of them, that you can win this._

He takes a deep breath before stepping back out onto the ice, launching himself forward and taking his position for the beginning of the second period.

Ten minutes pass with little to show for their play, but when Jack tags back in, he feels a different charge with his line. They’re more aware of where each other is, more in tune with each other, and when Poots passes to him, right when he skates near Vegas’s goal, he manages to sink a shot bar-down, right behind Travers’s back.

Vegas boos, loudly, and Jack has his own laugh when Kent tosses him a glare from his position near the blue line. Kent sees Jack’s joy, and smiles, though there’s not much glee in it. It’s more like… _like a challenge_ , Jack thinks.

Okay. Jack can handle a challenge.

Unfortunately, they stay neck-and-neck for the whole game. Andrei manages to score -- Kent scores just minutes after. Tater gets a goal, too, and Vegas calls for interference, but the goal stands. Charged with indignation, Alexander answers with another goal in the beginning of the third period. 

Neither team manages to score for most of the rest of the period -- but Jack gets the puck and flies behind the net, then tucks it in cleanly between Travers’ skate and his glove. He nearly weeps with joy during the celly; they’re up with three minutes left.

But his joy is short-lived. Hall manages to tie up the game less than a minute later, and the last minute-fifty is frenetic as both teams try to avoid OT.

Jack wants to scream when Tater gets a stupid tripping penalty. With only 4 Falconers on the ice, he gets a front-and-center view when Kent -- of course it’s Kent -- sinks his final goal of the night. And it’s a hat-trick on home ice, so of course Jack gets watch as Kent takes a victory lap and waves to his adoring crowd. With only a minute left, there’s not much to do but watch as Vegas wins.

And of course, he’s conflicted. Because he lost the game -- he had worked so hard, his men had worked so hard to avoid this -- but he has to concede that Kent played the better game.

And he’s not glad. Of course he’s not glad. But he’s proud, in a weird way, that Kent was the one to beat him, of all the guys who could have.

So he races to the locker room and showers lightning fast. He ducks the media and calls a cab directly outside of the arena, getting in and hiding his face under a hat, not expecting anyone to recognize him; but not willing to risk it, anyway.

The cab sits in a gridlock outside the arena in the traffic for a while, and Jack texts Kent that he’s still hoping they’ll see each other tonight. 

Kent texts back a quick message: “okay, loser. I’ll send you an address soon.” There’s a kissy emoji at the end, and if Jack weren’t still kind of pissed about the loss, he’d find it endearing.

Kent has to run through the press docket, so it takes him an extra eon to text Jack back. During that time, Jack runs through the loss with himself: it’s okay. He played his best, and now is not the time to get bitter about it. Because now, god willing, is the time to get laid, and he can’t say that’s happened to him in quite some time. So Jack sits and quietly meditates over his coffee, waiting, avoiding the press alerts on his phone and sending Bittle a quick “sorry, we’re already headed back to the hotel to talk about the game and get some rest. I’ll call tomorrow on the way to CA.”

Bittle doesn’t respond.

But Kent does: he sends an address and a “hurry up,” so Jack catches another cab and nervously reads out the address.

He gets there, and meets with the front desk attendant, who thankfully seems to already know who Jack is and who he’s there to see.

Jack tries -- he tries so hard -- to maintain his composure when he reaches the penthouse and Kent opens the door. But the meditation did him a lot of good, and he’s overeager and anxious in a good way to see Kent off the ice.

But he opens the door, and it’s Kent. It’s him. It’s finally him, right here, waiting for Jack just steps away, and Jack can’t help it: he grins and laughs, and tackles Kent in a huge hug before Kent can even ask him to come in.

“Oof,” Kent says. “Hi, Jack.”

“Hi,” Jack replies, his voice muffled against Kent’s shoulder. “God, Kent. It’s you.” 

Kent laughs, full of mirth. “I don’t think you’ve ever been this happy to see me.”

“Honestly, maybe not,” Jack breathes, finally stepping away. He can feel the absence of Kent’s body heat, and it nearly sends a chill down his spine. 

“And after I kicked your ass, too,” Kent taunts with a smirk, finally shutting the door.

“Barely,” Jack says, smirking right back. “You won at the tail end.”

“Still, I won,” Kent insists, and he beckons Jack over toward the table. “Sit,” he commands, pulling out a chair for him. “You want anything to drink?”

“What’ve you got?” Jack asks, and Kent snorts. 

“What don’t I have?” Kent replies dryly. 

“I guess whiskey, whatever kind you have,” Jack replies, and Kent wrinkles his nose, but opens up a bottle of bourbon for him. 

“Since when do you drink whiskey?” Kent asks. He keeps the bottle around for Travs -- the only other person he knows with a proclivity for that particular spirit -- but he won’t mind sharing.

“I don’t, really,” Jack replies. “It reminds me of my dad, I guess.”

“Aww, Dad Bob,” Kent smiles, handing over the glass. “How’s he doing?”

“He seems great,” Jack muses, sipping the drink and savoring it on his tongue. “He asks about you, sometimes.”

“Does he?” Kent smiles even wider. “Shucks, little old me?”

“You know you’re his favorite,” Jack insists. “And, uh, he… he knows we’re talking again.”

“‘ _Talking_ ,’” Kent mutters with a chuckle. “That’s a word for it.”

“Well, he doesn’t know the details,” Jack huffs, and when Kent leans forward, Jack leans forward to meet him, heart suddenly pounding.

But they don’t kiss like he was expecting. Kent just snags Jack’s drink and takes a pull himself. 

“Ugh,” he says, making a face. “I don’t see the appeal, frankly.”

“Maybe it’s an acquired taste,” Jack teases, stealing the glass back and polishing it off.

“I’ll stick to vodka,” Kent states, crossing the kitchen, grabbing a bottle from the freezer, pouring himself a shot, and downing it.

“Wow,” Jack comments. “I didn’t realize we were getting wasted.”

“I’m not,” Kent says with a shrug. “It’s just been a while since we’ve seen each other, I thought it was worth a celebratory shot. Or two, if that’s okay.”

“Sure, but can you pour me another, too?”

“You want any water in it?”

Jack gives him a plaintive look. “What do you think?”

Kent looks… unimpressed. “I didn’t realize you were drinking again, Zimms.”

“I’m not,” Jack parrots. “I’m celebrating.”

“Fine, fine,” Kent relents, and hands Jack another drink.

They clink their glasses together, and each take a sip, and Kent walks around to the other side of the table to meet Jack. Rather than sitting on the chair he takes out, though, he shuffles into Jack’s space and slides directly onto Jack’s lap.

Jack swallows thickly.

“So,” Kent says. “Good game tonight.”

“You too,” Jack says, and it’s quiet, but he almost thinks he can hear their heartbeats aligning.

(It might just be the alcohol, but whatever. He can be romantic when he wants to be.)

“So what are you doing here, Jack?”

“I came to see you.”

“Yeah, but what do you want?”

“I think you know what I want.”

“I think I’m gonna make you say it anyway.”

Jack’s not sure if he’s full of desire or liquid courage, but either way, he doesn’t hesitate before he leans forward and rests his forehead against Kent’s. “Kent, if you don’t fuck me tonight I might just have to stand up and leave.”

Kent closes the gap between them, planting a furious kiss against Jack’s lips. When they part briefly, Kent states, “That’s what I wanted to hear.” 

He slides off of Jack’s lap, gliding his hand along Jack’s thigh as he does so. Once he’s standing, he leans forward, pushes Jack’s legs apart and rubs the heel of his hand against the zipper of Jack’s suit pants.

Jack closes his eyes and lets out a charged shudder. “Oh, Kenny,” he sighs, and Kent takes that as his cue to undo the button and zipper of Jack’s fly.

He digs his hand into Jack’s pants and squeezes, and Jack stifles a shout, throwing his head back. “Ye-es,” he moans, and he feels himself growing harder, still clothed against Kent’s hand. But Kent digs him out of his boxers, then, and his breathing stutters when Kent thumbs at the head of his cock.

“That’s it, Zimms,” Kent encourages him, and he leans forward to mouth at Jack’s neck. He can feel Jack’s breathing where their chests meet, can feel Jack’s pulse under his tongue, can feel his throbbing cock in his fist, and Kent is positive of what he wants.

All at once, he stops touching Jack. He steps back and says, “C’mon. I got a bed that’s great for this kind of thing.”

Jack, a pretty red flush high on his cheeks, nods dumbly and stuffs himself back in his pants so he can follow.

He’s so fucking gone, he feels like he might follow Kent anywhere he wanted to go. Luckily, Kent just wants to go to the next room, and Jack is all too eager to wander in behind him.

When Kent gets into the room, the first thing he does is strip out of his shirt. Before he can turn to face Jack, Jack comes up behind him, aligns his hips against Kent’s ass and grinds, nuzzling Kent’s neck.

“Hey, easy,” Kent murmurs, letting out a high laugh when Jack’s hands graze up his abs and come to rest on his chest, fingers on his nipples. So he’s a little ticklish; so sue him. “Aww, just like you said that first time.”

“You remembered,” Jack says, and Kent can hear his smile. Jack plays with Kent’s nipples, and Kent melts back into his body for a moment. 

“Mmm, this is nice,” Kent says. “But not quite what I had in mind.”

“What’d you have in mind?” Jack asks, leaning forward to nibble on Kent’s earlobe.

“I pictured you with a lot less clothing, for one,” Kent says, finally breaking free from Jack’s embrace and turning to scrutinize him. “You should strip for me.”

“Want me to make it sexy?”

“As if you could,” Kent snorts. “Nah, just get naked and get on the bed.”

Jack rolls his eyes, but takes his shirt off. Kent looks a little taken aback -- but he says nothing, preferring instead to scan his eyes up and down Jack’s still very-present abs. Jack is still halfway to hard by the time he takes off the rest of his clothes -- but when he steps forward to move to the bed, Kent stops him with a palm to his chest. He trails his hand downwards, tickling Jack back in retaliation, before grasping Jack’s cock again. Jack’s eyes sink shut.

“Hey, no. Jack. Look at me.” Jack’s eyes snap open again, and Kent gazes intently into his icy blues. The intensity in Kent’s gaze grips Jack’s very core, and he’s suddenly so hard it hurts.

Kent removes his hand only for the moment it takes to spit into it, then gets back to working his dick in his palm. Jack has wanted this, so badly and for so long, that he almost collapses, his knees weak. “Oh, Kenny,” he exclaims again, and Kent grunts in pleasure at the nickname.

Kent lets go again. “Go sit on the bed,” he says; not rudely, but firmly, and Jack obeys quickly and silently. Jack sits up in bed, perched on his elbows, and watches as Kent unbuttons his jeans and pulls himself out of his black boxer briefs. Kent’s face relaxes, his eyelids going slack, as he touches himself, bringing himself to hardness as he stands over Jack.

Jack licks his lips unconsciously.

Kent smirks again, and Jack’s heart melts. “Like what you see, Zimms?”

“God, Kenny,” Jack groans. “Yes, of course.”

“You can touch yourself,” Kent offers. “But don’t you dare come without me.” Jack nods furiously, and brings his hand to his cock, stroking very lightly so as not to drive himself too mad.

“Spread your legs,” Kent says, and Jack does as he’s told. He’s still perched up on one elbow, eyes still connected with Kent’s lazy gaze, both of them jacking off as they take each other in.

“Jesus Christ, Zimms,” Kent says, then bites his lip. “God, you were so fucking sexy out there tonight. I wish I could have fucked you right after that second goal.”

“I wanted to blow you when you won the game,” Jack pants. “I’ve never been so okay with losing.”

Kent snorts again. “I know you weren’t okay with losing, but it’s okay. I think we both deserve a reward, don’t you?”

Jack shudders, and pulls his hand reluctantly away from his cock. He was getting too close, thinking about the intensity on Kent’s face when he’s about to score. “God, yeah. Yeah, yes.” He lets himself finally sink onto the bed, shutting his eyes and focusing on his breathing so that he won’t come then and there.

“Good boy, Jack,” Kent says, and he stops jerking himself too. “Wait just a second, lube’s in the night stand.” Jack looks over to see Kent rummaging, still partially clothed, and watches as Kent comes back to kneel between his legs. 

“This is going to be cold,” he says, coating his fingers liberally in the lube, and immediately pressing a finger into Jack. Jack yelps, both at the temperature and at the sudden pressure; the stretch burns, but he immediately feels that familiar warmth blossoming deep inside him.

Kent’s already fucking his finger in and out, and Jack can’t help it; he thrusts his hips to try to hasten the feeling. Kent chuckles, and without warning, thrusts in a second finger, to Jack’s simultaneous delight and surprise.

“Ah! Kenny,” he shouts, and his cock twitches, dripping onto his stomach. Kent says nothing, preferring to lean forward and lick at the droplets at the tip of Jack’s cock. 

“Tell me what you’re thinking, Jack.”

“Just… just how… how good you feel,” Jack mutters, trying his hardest to remain coherent. But it’s so hard, with how desperately he wants this, with how desperately he wants even more.

“I’m gonna suck your cock,” Kent says, “but don’t you dare come until I tell you you can. Okay, baby?”

Jack whines, high and clear, and nods. Kent continues thrusting, now adding a third finger, and wraps his other hand tightly around the base of Jack’s cock. He then gets his mouth situated on Jack’s tip, sucking harshly at the head, running his tongue through the slit. He keeps at it for a moment, and Jack already wants to scream. Instead he muffles himself by biting down on one fist and clenching the other in Kent’s crisp bedding. Then Kent starts to suck in time to his thrusts, and Jack can’t stand it: he screams around his fist, and Kent pops off, laughing.

“Don’t laugh, Kenny,” Jack moans. “I’m so fucking close but I can’t and it’s _horrible_.”

“But you love it, I know you do,” Kent prods, and Jack nods despite his miserable expression.

“Of course I do. I love anything you do to me.”

“I’m glad,” Kent says, “because I’m not finished.” 

He grabs Jack’s hips and maneuvers them upwards, to just the right angle so he can thrust his cock into Jack’s hole. He’s fully seated in one swift movement, and Jack moans again, heavy and deep. His brain short circuits for a second, his only focus on the sensation of being so fucking full, so completely possessed by Kent.

“How’s that feel?” Kent prompts, and Jack just cries out incoherently in response. “That’s what I thought,” Kent smirks again, and he grinds into Jack’s ass, Jack clenching his teeth and stifling another wail of pleasure.

Kent finally allows himself to relinquish a bit of control, losing himself in how fucking unreal Jack feels around him. He hasn’t allowed himself to really have feelings for Jack, this whole time, but now he feels like maybe... maybe it would be okay. Okay to let himself fall in love a little.

He slips back into concentration soon enough, focusing on driving deep into Jack as Jack continues to pant and moan wantonly beneath him. 

“Hey, Zimms,” he says. “I have an idea.”

“Okay, Kenny,” Jack responds tightly.

“Tap my arm twice if you don’t like this,” he says, and he puts a hand on Jack’s throat. Jack looks surprised, but nods, so Kent squeezes. 

It’s light at first, but Jack keeps his hands to himself, so Kent keeps gripping harder. Soon, the blue of Jack’s irises practically glows with the red surrounding them. Kent loosens his grip -- they’re playing a dangerous game, here -- but Jack grabs Kent’s wrist, squeezing tight, and Kent gets the message. Jack doesn’t want him to stop.

And that’s when Jack makes a strained noise, quaking uncontrollably, and Kent knows he’s coming. He lets go of Jack’s neck -- and Jack gasps, eyes screwing shut with the influx of air to his lungs. “Fuck, Kenny,” he gasps, and his back arches when Kent grinds in again. 

“I -- I didn’t give you permission,” Kent chastises, but it’s half-hearted; he’s so close himself, he can barely blame Jack.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jack wheezes. “You’re just so good, I couldn’t… I couldn’t hold on anymore--” he struggles to catch his breath while Kent continues to drive into him, faster now, chasing his own orgasm. “Kent, you’re so good, so good to me, I need you, I need--.”

Kent, choosing to focus rather than respond, pulls out right when he’s about to come, gripping his cock and letting the come spurt out on Jack’s stomach. He paints Jack with stripes of white, and Jack looks so fucking blown away, breathing fast and hard, tears streaming down his face as he’s white-knuckling the sheets.

Kent, finally spent, crawls up onto the bed and collapses next to Jack. He kicks his jeans the rest of the way off and sighs, so sated and content.

Jack rolls over and kisses Kent as hard as he can, as deeply as he can, with as much feeling as he can muster. 

And Kent kisses back; allows himself this indulgence, this moment of emotion he can’t quite name. Kent kisses back, and gives as good as he gets, before pulling away and declaring:

“So you need me, huh?” he teases.

He says it as a joke. So he’s not expecting Jack’s genuine response of, “I think I do.”

Kent just stares.

“I, uh,” Jack says. “I don’t…. Is that okay?”

Kent finally looks away, and runs a hand through his already tousled hair. “I, um. I don’t know, Jack.”

“You don’t have to know right now.”

Kent’s surprised by this answer. It must play out on his face, because Jack lets out a small chuckle. “I know I’m a fucking mess right now, and I’m not asking you to be in love with me or anything. But I think I need you, Kenny, and I hope you think about if you want to be with me too.”

Kent ponders this for a moment. “Okay, Zimms.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll think about it. Why don’t we take a shower, for now?”

“Okay, Kenny.”

Kent rises first, getting a hand under Jack’s elbow to help him up onto his uneasy feet. Jack wobbles into the bathroom and Kent lowers him down to sit on the edge of the tub, where he rests while Kent runs the water and adjusts the temp.

“I’m still mad at you, you know,” Kent says, and Jack looks up at him with horror in those huge eyes.

“Easy, easy, I’m kidding,” Kent laughs. “Kind of.”

“What-- why?--” Jack splutters.

“Just ‘cause you came without my permission,” Kent replies breezily, and Jack looks relieved. “Don’t worry, I think you’ll like your punishment.”

Jack smiles at that, and gladly takes Kent’s proffered hand, using his weight to stand more easily.

It turns out Jack’s punishment, which he does indeed like, involves Kent spanking his ass raw while Jack struggles to stay standing under the hot spray of the shower.

Jack’s not sure how he feels about the welts it leaves behind -- or how he’s going to cover them in the locker room -- but he sure as hell enjoys anything Kent wants to give him.

He wishes he could stay. He wishes he didn’t have to get back to his room, back to the guys and tomorrow night’s game. He wishes he could wrap Kent up in his arms and kiss each freckle, each little sunkissed spot ever-present, now that Kent lives in perpetual sunshine.

“I’ll miss you,” Jack says when they part. He had kissed Kent, so deeply and so long, but it’s late, and he needs to get back to the hotel. “I’ll call you,” he promises, leaning forward to plant one last, desperate kiss on Kent’s lips.

But Jack has to go. And he hopes Kent feels the regret when he kisses him goodbye.

Kent does feel the regret. And he’s… bothered by it.

This is not how this was supposed to go.

When Jack’s gone, Kent has a small moment of panic, thinking about how Jack was not supposed to do this to him. Jack was not supposed to fall for him, and Kent was not supposed to make it worse, somehow, by not being affectionate with Jack. But Jack’s a masochist, he knows, and he kind of always has been, so of course Kent being distant, of course Kent letting Jack get affectionate wouldn’t deter him from developing _feelings_.

It’s an awful lot to think about, and Kent isn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of Jack trying to… what, to win him back?

_Perish the thought_ , he thinks. Jack is _not_ going to try to win Kent back. It’s just not how Jack works. And he’ll be the first to admit that Jack is… very different than he used to be. But he’ll also be the first to admit that Jack has never been the type to pursue someone like this, so openly and almost frantically, and Kent has no idea how to react or what to do.

He almost calls Swoops. He almost has to tell... someone. And Swoops is the only one he’s out to, the only one he could trust with this.

But he can’t let Swoops be right about this. He can’t let Swoops have the bragging rights.

So instead, he wanders into the guest room where he knows Purrs is asleep, and picks up his cat and tells him about the whole nightmare with Zimms.

When he doesn’t hear from Jack immediately, he picks up his phone. He sends a quick text, one he hopes is cold enough to send Jack a signal without actually using his words: "I’m going to bed early, but I’ll talk to you soon. Night, Jack."

He climbs into bed, Purrs resting at his feet, and tries to sleep. He mostly fails, occasionally drifting off into a dreamless slumber, but wakes up exhausted and grouchy in the morning.

He has to tell Swoops. He has to tell someone, and Swoops is the only answer.

He dreads it, but picks up his phone, not even reading the response from Jack before he dials a number he knows by heart.


	8. stood on my chest and kept me down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bittle’s kisses are frantic now, all teeth and tongue, and Jack is panicking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out. I wanted to edit it too much and it took too much time. But I'm finally satisfied enough to send this out, so fingers crossed that it's good enough!
> 
> Hopefully the next chapter won't take this long to crank out. I love you all and I hope you enjoy (or maybe not, since this chapter is probably even more disastrous than the previous ones)! <3

“Swoops. It’s me,” Kent says into the phone when Swoops finally picks up the next morning, his voice surprisingly steady, despite his fried nerves and lack of sleep.

“Shit, Parser,” Swoops groans, and Kent can hear his wife protesting at Swoops being so loud so early. “Where were you last night?”

“Like you don’t already know,” Kent grumbles, and he can hear Swoops guffaw. He also hears a smack, an “ow, babe!,” some whispers, a shuffling noise, and a door shutting before things quieten down the line.

“Yeah, yeah, I already know,” Swoops groans. “I was just hoping I was wrong. You disappeared within seconds of the presser, and you didn’t show up despite numerous texts that we were going to buy you shots. Was the sex that good?”

“Honestly, it was…. You know what, that’s not what I’m calling about, and you don’t want to hear about it,” Kent gripes, and he hears Swoops yawn before he agrees.

“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know why I asked,” he sighs. “So what’s the crisis that has you calling me at 8:45 am on a precious, precious day off?”

“Zimms…. I think…. He’s getting feelings,” Kent whispers. He has to yank the phone away from his ear when Swoops yells, “I told you so!”

“Shut up,” Kent snaps. “You don’t have to yell about it.”

“But I do,” Swoops sings. “I really, really do, Kent, because _I was right and you were wrong._ ”

“Okay, get it out.” Kent rubs his eyes with his free hand. “Go ahead, brag all you want. But I’m gonna need you to be my friend in a minute, so make sure you get your fill, and fast.”

Swoops just laughs, for what feels like an eternity, before he finally sobers. “Okay,” he says, “I’m ready. What do you need a friend for?”

“I don’t have feelings back, Swoops.”

Swoops actually shuts up for a minute, but of course it’s when Kent really wishes he had something to say.

“Kent, c’mon. This is Jack Zimmermann we’re talking about,” he finally says. “You carried a torch for this guy for years. Are you seriously expecting me to believe you have him back, and don’t have feelings for him?”

“Yeah,” Kent says plaintively. “I don’t, like, love him, or whatever. And I can tell he’s got it for me, he just… when he left last night, I --”

“I really don’t need the details, Kent. Whatever you say, bro,” Swoops replies, sounding wary. “But are you sure? Are you really really sure? Nine years ago I practically had to carry you home every night because you couldn’t stop drinking yourself stupid over this guy.”

“Did you hear what you just said, Swoops?” Kent asks, hoping it doesn’t sound too snide. “Nine years ago. Nine years! I’ve grown up so much since then. I’ve moved on. I don’t need to be someone’s rebound when I’m almost thirty fucking years old. I’m doing fine, life is fantastic. I don’t need Jack to know that so that he can toss a fucking wrench into it all.”

“Hmm.” Swoops still doesn’t sound convinced. “Okay, I’ll give you the benefit, here. Say you’re over Jack. But you still slept with him. How are you going to convince him you’re over him after that?”

“That’s just the problem,” Kent laments. “I don’t fucking know. He said he doesn’t need an answer now, but what’s he gonna do when the answer is no?”

“Maybe you do care about him, if you care about his reaction? You’ve broken a dozen hearts, Kent, I don’t see why this is any different.”

“I guess because we go back so far,” Kent supposes. “Like, we were friends and then something else, then it took so long to be friends again. I want us to still be friends. If I knew he was going to get feelings, I probably wouldn’t have done this.”

“I’m sorry, dude. That’s a tangled-ass can of worms.”

“Yeah,” Kent sighs. “Thanks for listening, man.”

“I’m going back to bed,” Swoops yawns. “But let me know if you figure out how you’re gonna let him down, all right?”

“I will,” Kent says, and flops back down onto his pillows without an inch of grace.

***

Jack wins the rest of his games on the west coast road trip. He texts Kent every night, and Kent smiles, sends selfies back, but worries.

Jack admits that he got a lot of flack from the team after ducking out on them in Vegas. He doesn’t say it, but Kent knows they must be suspicious of him suddenly ditching the team. He sends back the occasional “haha” and “good luck” over the rest of the week, but otherwise stays pretty noncommittal in his texts.

If Jack notices, he doesn’t say anything; but Kent thinks he’s probably distracted, riding the high of his hope for a new win streak. 

Meanwhile, Kent focuses on his own games, taking the ribbing from his own teammates about disappearing the night of their win against the Falcs. Kent admits he was with Jack, but doesn’t cop to what they were doing beyond “chilling.” Swoops eyes him knowingly, but convinces the rest of the team to drop it. “They’re old friends,” he says, and the guys seem to take the firm tone for what it is: a warning to shut up and leave their captain alone.

Kent appreciates it. He has plenty to worry about between keeping his game strong and figuring out how to let Jack down gently. 

***

Bittle hosts a party for the Falcs when they get back home. He personally bakes half a dozen pies, which is, of course, not nearly enough to sate a full team of players (even though Jack slips by without taking a single bite -- and he doesn’t think Bittle even notices). 

After Bittle shoos the stragglers out the door, just he and Jack are left, lounging on the couch with highlights playing (Jack lifted his ban on hockey TV when he arrived home a success).

“Hey, hon,” Bittle says when he flops down on the couch next to Jack. He rests his head on Jack’s chest, and Jack - who hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol, worried about what he’d cop to, and what Bittle would do, if he drank enough - holds his breath, hoping his heart doesn’t start beating too fast.

“Hey, Bits,” Jack replies softly, and brings one of his hands to cup Bittle’s cheek. He runs his hand through the buzzed ends of his honey golden hair, and Bittle snuggles closer. He leans his face up and presses his lips against Jack’s jaw, and Jack knows he can’t keep his heart from racing anymore.

“Bits, uh,” Jack begins, but Bittle doesn’t let him finish. He climbs onto Jack’s lap and kisses him feverishly, running his fingers through the longer ends of Jack’s hair and gripping. “Ah!” Jack exclaims, surprised, when he manages to pull away for a moment. But Bittle isn’t letting him move away for long; his lips are back in place shortly, and Jack struggles to back up.

Bittle gets his hands underneath Jack’s shirt and grips his sides. He grinds down where he straddles Jack, and Jack’s heart is suddenly pounding against the inside of his ribs. He tries to shift back, but has nowhere to go. He tries to pull away, but his head hits the wall. 

Bittle’s kisses are frantic now, all teeth and tongue, and Jack is panicking. He really, really doesn’t want to fuck Bittle, but he really, really doesn’t want to hurt him. But Bittle is unbuttoning Jack’s pants, and Jack has to make up his mind, fast. Bittle’s fingers snake beneath the waistband of Jack’s boxers.

Finally, his rational thought taking over, Jack runs his hands up Bittle’s sides to that little spot under his armpits, where he’s extremely ticklish. Bittle yelps and immediately pulls back, looking surprised and annoyed.

“Jack, why would you --” he begins, but he stops, the cowed look on Jack’s face already answering his question.

“Bittle, I -- I can’t. Not tonight. I can’t.”

“Jack? Are you… okay?” Bittle looks more suspicious than worried, and Jack’s stomach plummets.

“I’m just really tired, Bits,” Jack replies, trying to sound reassuring. “We just got back from the trip, and then there was the party, and I just…. I’m really tired. I’m sorry.”

Bittle’s expression softens in the low light. “Oh. Okay, Jack, of course,” he replies, and he stumbles a little as he climbs off of Jack’s lap. “Are you sure? I can just give you -- you know --”

“I’m sure,” Jack interrupts. He doesn’t even want to know what Bittle wanted to give him instead, but he feels far too guilty about the tryst in Vegas to sleep with him any time soon.

It’s just as well; they haven’t slept together in months.

“Okay, Jack,” Bittle sighs. “Do you want me to take the guest room, so you can get as much rest as possible?”

“Why don’t I… actually… take the guest room?” Jack’s voice is strained, burdened with the worry that he’s going to have to explain himself, now.

“Oh. If you want,” Bittle shrugs, rubbing his right hand up and down his other arm. “I just… wanted to congratulate you, is all.”

_Oh, Bits._

“I really appreciate it,” Jack insists, suddenly forcing warmth into his voice. “Of course I do, Bittle. I love that you care about me so much. But I’m… I just….” he tries. He tries, so hard, but he can’t bring himself to say it: to tell the truth. I’m in love with someone else. I cheated on you, Bittle, and I lied, and I’m sorry. 

He takes a deep breath, trying one last time to say it, but before he can get anything out, Bittle just responds:

“I get it, Jack. Don’t worry. We can… another time.” He turns away, then busies himself with cleaning the party mess, scooping up plastic dishes and cups, empty and half-empty bottles of liquor. 

“I’m sorry, Bits,” Jack repeats himself.

“I know, Jack.”

“Do you want help?”

“Just go to bed, Jack.”

And Jack, not sure what else he can do at this point, does.

***

Jack left the ward with a duffle and a backpack and a newfound sense of freedom in the everyday.

In the hospital, he hadn’t been allowed to keep anything personal to himself. The doors didn’t lock, there was no curtain on the shower, and on nights when he couldn’t sleep, he’d notice someone -- one of the nurses -- patrolling the hallways, shining a flashlight through the window, straight in his face, to check he was still in bed.

He had to ask the nurses for his toothbrush. For a comb. For a bar of soap to shower with, on the days when his parents came to visit. And he wanted to cry, to scream; but he couldn’t, if he wanted to go home sooner rather than later, so he just turned the shower on (over and over, because the spray shut off every 30 seconds) and let his lip tremble and eyes water. 

He’d never been so grateful for privacy, and perhaps he took his need for it to the extreme, once they finally let him go.

Kent’s texts went from casual to desperate to frantic, before he eventually stopped texting at all. Jack read them all, but didn’t respond to a single one. 

Jack missed dozens of calls while he was forbidden from having his phone, and at least half of them were from Kent.

He got a new phone, and then another, and then another; and eventually lost Kent’s number.

(Until, years later, he asked for it again, from a friend of a friend.)

Part of him cut Kent out because it would be easier than explaining why he did what he did. Part of it was because he didn’t want Kent to think it was his fault.

Part of him -- the darkest part -- did want Kent to think it was his fault. Kent, with his charm and his charisma, his talent and humor, and his apparent ability to do everything and anything that Jack couldn’t.

None of these parts are productive, he knows; but it also wouldn’t be productive to let things resume with Kent after the hospital - not with Jack’s mortification, his self-loathing, his unbearable desire to fall asleep and wake up a completely different person. 

So Kent’s texts and phone calls went unanswered, and Jack grew angrier and angrier at his former best friend. 

The anger didn’t subside for years, and Kent took those years to move on. What else was he supposed to do?

So when Jack’s anger fizzles and eventually disappears, he has no idea that Kent took all that time to, well, get over Jack. When Kent said ‘maybe,’ that night in his bed, Jack heard ‘yes,’ because he had no idea that Kent could possibly, seriously, genuinely not want Jack that way anymore.

But Kent, for all his perfections, still doesn’t quite believe that Jack is about to come out the other side of this single. Not with everything that he’s done for that boyfriend of his.

And, fuck it -- he likes having Jack trailing along behind him like a lost puppy. He likes to feel needed, so even though he knows this can’t end well, he doesn’t put a stop to it so long as Jack won’t.

Swoops side-eyes him every time he opens a text or a snap and smiles in that certain way, but Kent just sneers back and locks his phone. It’s no one else’s damn business, anyway.

***

Jack’s teammates noticed something on Sunday night.

Well, Snowy in particular noticed something, and asked everyone else, and they all agree: something is weird with Jack.

So he pulls Jack aside after optional skate on Monday, beckoning for Jack to follow him into the dressing room. The team’s core are all already gathered, waiting for Jack in their stalls.

“Jack, we have something to say,” he begins, and Tater stands to speak first.

“We love you, Jack,” he reads stiffly off of a sheet of paper. “Is why, today, we want to speak with you.”

“Hold on,” Jack says, his eyes blown wide. “Is this an intervention? What -- I -- why?”

“It’s not an intervention,” Snowy replies, voice placating. “We just noticed that there’s something going on with you and Eric, and we want to help.”

Jack can’t help it; he hides his face in his gloves. “Guys, there’s nothing wrong with me and Bits,” comes his muffled response.

“Bits and I,” Poots corrects him, and Andrei elbows him in the ribs.

“Bitty say you did not eat pie at party!” Tater protests. “This is not like you, Jack.”

“I wasn’t hungry,” Jack protests gently. He has no idea how he’s supposed to get out of this. He wonders if calling Bittle and asking him to come down might help. “Is this about my playing?”

“You play great!” Tater replies. “You play best yet, Jack. But something different at party, and we worry.”

“Exactly,” Snowy replies, nodding. “Jack, if something is going on at home, we just want you to know that we’re here for you, okay?”

Jack breathes slowly, glancing around the room at his teammates’ faces. They care. They just care about him.

Why does he feel like he’s letting down everyone who cares about him?

“Guys, uh, I’m sorry if I’ve been letting… things at home affect things here. But it’s okay, I don’t need any help or anything.”

The guys glance at each other, not convinced. But they each stand and clap Jack on the shoulder, or in Tater’s case give him the biggest bear hug he’s maybe ever had.

Snowy, however, stays behind after the others strip out of their gear, change, and leave.

“Jack.” He motions for Jack to take a seat next to him, in Poots’s stall.

Jack sits, but uneasily; he knows he hasn’t made it home free yet.

“There’s something going on, and you don’t have to tell the other guys, but I thought… well, I thought maybe you’d like someone to confide in. Whether it’s me or the team psychologist, I think someone should know what’s up with you.”

Jack, dressed back in his street clothes, shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets. He sighs. “Okay, Snowy, fine. But you can’t tell any of the other guys, and you definitely can’t tell any psychologists.”

Snowy just nods, listening attentively.

Jack heaves a sigh and says, “Bittle and I haven’t…. Haven’t slept together since October.”

Snowy nods again. “What happened in October?”

Jack’s not quite ready to talk about that. “Well, some things changed between us, and then my game got a lot worse, and then I started putting in more hours at the rink and -- well, I guess I kind of lost sight of him. Things have changed, and I’m not… I’m not sure if we can recover.”

Snowy forces a loud whistle between his teeth. “Damn, dude, that’s -- that’s tough. Thank you for trusting me enough to let me know, though.”

“Yeah,” Jack replies, not pointing out that Snowy basically threatened him with clinical interference in order to get it out of him.

“Call me if you need anything, okay?” Snowy insists. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

“Yeah. Yeah, all right,” Jack says, feeling pretty lucky, after all, that Snowy settled for only a half-truth about what’s really going on.

He lets Snowy hug him, and manages to hug him back despite the extreme discomfort and anxiety he’s suddenly feeling about everything.

But he can’t let it bother him; they have games to keep winning, and come hell or high water he’s going to make sure they win it all this year.

He just has to prove that, even if everything else falls apart, he can still play hockey; he can still win.


	9. did my best to just exist for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent: I’m waiting for u  
> Jack: I’m out with the guys, Kent.  
> Kent: I’m waiting for u NAKED.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW here we go. sorry this chapter is on the shorter side, but hopefully I won't keep you waiting as long for the next update. basically this chapter and chapter 11 used to be one behemoth chapter, and I had to find a place to cut it somewhere, so sadly this one is a bit of a transition chapter to more action in the next one.
> 
> Your comments and insights give me so much LIFE, you don't even know. I keep catching myself smiling when I think about the feedback this fic gets, and how wonderful you all are for sharing your thoughts with me. 
> 
> As always, so much love goes to Sam for the origin of this fic. It's completely thanks to her that we're here at all. 
> 
> I love you all! Thanks for tuning in.

A couple months pass with the Falconers continuing to ride the high of their Pacific road trip.

Of course, they lose some games here and there, but their record is nigh untouchable, and by the end of March, when the Aces are in town, Jack’s positive he’s going to beat Kent this time.

He does -- they do -- by the skin of his -- their -- teeth, but still only manages a goal to Kent’s two.

He’s bitter enough about it that it almost takes Kent begging -- along with several scandalous snaps -- for Jack to come over to his hotel room after the game.

Kent: I’m waiting for u  
Jack: I’m out with the guys, Kent.  
Kent: I’m waiting for u NAKED.

Jack begs off the celebration early -- “I have to get home, to, uh, you know” -- and his teammates are just happy that their troubled captain seems to be, well, beyond his troubles. Even Snowy gives him a raised eyebrow on his way out. 

Jack’s gotten very good at lying, it seems; either that, or no one is pointing out how bad he is yet.

The Aces are also, conveniently, out and about -- though none of them see Kent slip away. He’s hard to keep track of on nights like these, nights when they’re bummed about a loss, but happy that their season has been good enough for it not to matter so much.

Bittle texts Jack: “Hi honey, when do you think you’ll be home?”

And Jack simply replies: “Late. Sorry, Bittle, the guys are celebrating the win. I’ll text you when I’m on my way home, if you’ll be awake?”

Bittle: “Don’t worry about it, I’m going to bed. I set your clean laundry in the guest room. Goodnight.”

And that’s that on that, as far as Jack is concerned.

He types in the address of Parse’s hotel, and hops in the Lyft that arrives. What he doesn’t know is that Snowy, on his own way out, watches the Lyft peel away, driving off in the wrong direction for Jack's apartment. 

And Snowy, suddenly, wonders.

Jack spends the ride getting worked up by flipping through his saved images of Kent. Kent taught him how to put the pictures under lock and key, coaching him over the phone, and rewarding him on his success with a few dirty snaps (with his face covered, of course -- he’s not an idiot).

Kent barely gets his hotel door open -- still fully dressed, the liar -- before Jack’s on him, kissing his mouth, his temple, his neck, his collarbone.

“Whoa, Jack,” Kent comments. “Can I at least shut the door?”

“Shit,” Jack mutters, turning on a dime and slamming the door shut. He peels his jacket off quickly before getting back to work, unbuttoning Parse’s shirt with his lips glued firmly to Kent’s. 

Kent rips himself away for air. “Jesus Christ, Jack,” he says, a surprised twinge to his voice. “You miss me or something?”

“I just,” Jack gasps, crowding into Kent’s space again. “I just really, really want you.” He can’t keep his hands away, grazing them up and down Kent’s sides, and Kent laughs a little more manically than he means to.

“So you did miss me,” he grins, and leans forward to bite Jack’s neck, careful not to leave too dark of a mark.

Jack isn’t even thinking about the consequences of letting Parse claim him.

In fact, Jack wishes he would. Wishes he could.

“Fuck, Kenny,” he breathes, frenetic as he grasps Parse’s hair and plants a kiss on his cowlick.

Kent laughs again, completely overwhelmed by Jack’s sudden, frantic need.

It’s a rush.

Kent lets Jack manhandle him onto the bed, but that’s where his patience ends.

He rolls over, legs on either side of Jack’s hips, and presses Jack down onto the pillows.

“Not so fast,” Parse murmurs, pushing Jack’s hands over his head. “Give me a minute here, okay? You’re going to jump the gun.”

“The only thing I want to jump is you,” Jack replies with a nasty smirk, and Kent can’t help it: without thinking, he slaps him.

“Whoa,” Kent whispers, as Jack stares back, dumbstruck. “Jack I’m-- I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean --”

“Do it again,” Jack whispers back. “Please, Kenny, do it again --”

And Parse backhands him, and Jack cries out. But there’s more pleasure in the sound than pain, and Kent just stares for a moment, letting the arousal wash over him.

“Shit,” he laughs. “Jack, you’re kind of a sick fuck, you know?”

“Are you going to take care of me or are you going to call me names?” Jack asks, eyebrows arched in a challenge, and Kent grabs his chin, roughly, before letting go and shoving a couple fingers in Jack’s mouth. Jack sucks eagerly. 

Kent comments, “Least that shut you up.” He pulls his hand out and slaps Jack again, the smack of it wet and sloppy. 

“Kenny,” Jack cries, and Kent leans down to kiss him once more. 

“I think I know what I want to do with you now,” Kent says, and he finally releases Jack’s wrists from his other hand. “Get up, and grab your tie for me.”

“You have to get off of me first,” Jack points out, and Kent smacks him on the arm. 

“Cheeky,” Kent murmurs as he lies back, watching Jack dig around in his discarded suit. Jack returns with the tie, and Kent motions for him to drop it on the bed. “You’re not done,” Kent points out, “I also want you to grab the lube from my suitcase. Upper front pocket.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jack replies with a raised brow, and Kent makes a mental note to slap him again for the attitude. 

“C’mere,” Kent motions when Jack turns around with the bottle. Jack climbs back on the bed, dropping the lube next to Kent. 

Kent pulls Jack in by his shoulders, sitting Jack down on his lap and kissing him sweetly. He knows, he knows that it’s a mistake; that he shouldn’t show any affection, lest Jack get the wrong idea. But in this fucked up game they’re playing, he can’t help but let himself have this, just this singular moment with Jack, where he can pretend they’re a normal couple and nothing is wrong about what they’re doing. 

Before he even finishes kissing Jack, he slaps him on the cheek again, and Jack pulls away, giggling like a maniac. 

“Turn around and get yourself ready for me,” Kent states, and Jack doesn’t take his time following orders. 

He makes it as lascivious as Kent thinks he possibly can, moaning, “oh, Kenny, I need you,” with three fingers in his ass and his hard cock rubbing against Kent’s arched leg. 

Kent just watches, letting himself grow hard from the show. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” Kent says, and he grabs Jack’s hands. He binds them together behind Jack's back with the tie, then places his own hands on Jack’s hips. He squeezes, then says, “let me know if the tie turns out to be too much,” before pulling Jack down onto his dick in one swift motion. 

Jack screams, but it fades into a moan soon enough, Jack’s powerful back flexing on display for Kent. 

Kent just chuckles a little before he pushes Jack off, then pulls him back on again, and Jack gets the idea: Kent wants him to move. 

Soon, he’s riding Kent at a steady pace. “That’s it, baby,” Kent coos, and without asking permission he drags his nails down Jack’s muscled back. 

He hears Jack suck in a breath through his teeth, and he clenches around Kent, so Kent does it again. 

This time Jack moans, loudly, and Kent smiles to himself a bit. 

“Speed up, baby,” Kent replies, and to add emphasis he spanks Jack, hard. 

Jack’s a sucker for punishment, so he rides Kent even faster. 

“That’s it,” Kent crows, groaning deeply with pleasure. He then decides to sit up, balancing on one hand, and reaches around with the other to firmly squeeze Jack’s cock.

Jack wails, bucking erratically and fucking into Kent’s hand. The rhythm is too much for Kent; he moans and bites Jack’s shoulder as he topples over the edge. The shock of pain does it for Jack, as well, whose come spurts beyond Kent’s hand and onto the sheets.

Kent rests his forehead against Jack’s back, panting as he comes back down, and Jack slumps forward. 

“Kent, I -- I’m --”

“Shhh,” Kent whispers, eyes resting closed, listening to Jack’s hard breathing. “Just give me a minute, Jack.”

“Can you give me a hand, though? I can’t -- my fucking hands --”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees, “okay, okay.”

He unties Jack’s hands and then helps Jack dismount, laying him down on the bed. Jack flexes his fingers, and for a split second, Kent worries he tied the knots too tight; but Jack doesn't complain, so neither will he. Next to each other, they can look into each other’s eyes, and Kent can tell Jack has something to say.

“Kenny,” Jack begins, and Kent clamps his eyes shut, ready for the worst. Jack continues, “Kenny, I think I’m… falling for you.”

“Oh, Zimms.” Kent buries his face in his pillow, willing himself not to scream. Muffled, he blusters, “No. God damn it, Zimms.”

“I can’t hear…. What?” Jack asks, resting his hand on Kent’s shoulder. He gives Kent a little shake. “Kenny, are you okay?”

“No, Jack,” Kent replies, turning his head out from the pillow. “I’m not okay.”

“Tell me about it?” Jack offers, and Kent sits upright to look down at him. He’s fucked, looking into those icy blue irises. But he’s been fucked over by Jack, one too many times, and he hasn’t forgotten.

“Jack.” Kent reaches out and brushes a lock of black bangs away from Jack’s face. “Jack, you can’t do this. _I_ can’t do this.”

“What do you mean?” Jack sits up, perched on an elbow, his expression confused and so innocent for someone who’s doing… well, what he’s doing.

“I can’t be your…. I don’t know. Your misguided target in all of this.”

“I don’t think I follow.” Jack’s voice takes on a hard edge, his brows furrowing, creating a lovely little bundle of wrinkles between them. Kent wants to kiss them away; but he can’t. He won’t.

“I don’t think we’re doing this for the same reasons,” Kent replies, trying to keep his manner soft; he doesn’t want to create any unnecessary anger, here.

“You’re… breaking up with me?” Jack cocks his head like a confused puppy.

“We’re not together, though,” Kent tries to keep his voice steady, but it’s so, so hard. Jack isn’t _listening_.

“But what if I want to be?” Jack retorts, and Kent immediately brings a hand to his head.

“Jesus Christ,” Kent swears, and he gets up from the bed, yanks on a pair of boxers, and paces. “Jack, you cannot be serious right now.”

“Of course I am,” Jack intones, sounding hurt.

“You’re… you’re already with someone, someone you’ve been with for years,” Kent remarks, talking wildly with his hands. “This isn’t okay, Jack!”

“You weren’t complaining five minutes ago!” Jack points out, getting up to meet Kent. 

“That’s different,” Kent spits, even though Jack grabs him by his shoulders, trying to make Kent look him in the eye.

“How? How is it different?” Jack demands. He keeps moving his head, trying to make eye contact with Kent; but Kent is enough shorter that he breaks away before Jack can manage it.

“This was just sex, Jack.” Kent wants to beg him to stop. “That’s all it was ever supposed to be.”

“Well, maybe it wasn’t for me!” Jack cries, flopping down onto the bed, burying his face in his hands.

“Jack, I… I can’t. Not like this. I’m sorry.”

“But why?”

Kent lets out a frustrated _hmph_. “Jack, my life is… really good right now. I have good friends, a nice place to live -- I have three goddamn Stanley Cups! I don’t need to be your backup option, or your rebound, or whatever you want me to be.”

“I don’t want you to be any of those things, though,” Jack replies. “I just want… you.”

“I can’t, Jack. I… I don’t want it.”

He won’t look Jack in the eye, but he can hear his voice tremble when he speaks again.

“Can we… can we still talk, and stuff?”

Kent guesses ‘and stuff’ means the sexting. He sighs. “Promise me you’re not going to try to… date me, or something. I can’t do it, Jack. But if you promise me, we can keep being friends.”

Jack stands again, and strides over to where Kent stands. “I won’t bring it up again,” Jack replies, crowding Kent and wrapping his arms around him. “I promise, Kenny, I’ll figure my own shit out.”

Kent feels cold, nonetheless. “Okay, Jack.”

Jack turns him around and kisses him, and Kent can’t help the sudden warmth that blooms in his chest.

He’s afraid this isn’t going to be the last time they do this.

He’s afraid Jack will renege on his promise.

He’s afraid of what Swoops will say when he finds out.

So he pledges, to himself, to keep it under wraps -- for now.

When Swoops texts to ask where he went, he says he feels sick. When Jack texts to say he’s home safe, Kent simply responds, “good,” and shuts off his phone for the night.

He doesn’t dream.

By late April, both the Falconers and the Aces have made the playoffs. Kent decides to focus on hockey, instead of Jack, and it pays off: they make it to the Conference finals.

Of course, without Kent to distract him, Jack plays even better, and the Falcs make it to the Eastern Conference finals, too.

It’s looking like it could be a Falconers v Aces cup final, and Kent ignores Jack’s texts for days leading up to the series.

Jack, of course, has other things to worry about, and barely notices, because:  
It’s almost time. Bittle's getting antsy about announcing the engagement. And Jack is running out of time to tell him the truth.


	10. but we're the greatest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack is in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh man. Remember when I said I'd update quickly, and then I waited like ten days? Well I am sorry. I am very sorry for that.
> 
> (In my defense, I haven't had a day off from work in a while.)
> 
> Anyway!! I'll keep the rest of this short:
> 
> Buckle up!

Jack is in love.

Jack is in love, and he is sick to his stomach. 

But he has also never felt so high.

It’s a combination of giddiness and dread. He feels like he’s walking on air, but not without that tiny voice reminding him, constantly, how far away the ground is.

In his highest moments, he pictures Kent’s smile, imagines his laugh, and grins wordlessly. In his dreams, he runs his thumbs up the arches of freckly hips. Kent’s eyes glisten in the sun, a bright green contrast to the cloudless summer sky. He jumps in the lake and races after Kent, not quite catching his hand before his eyes flutter open. He curses the loss, but smiles to himself nonetheless.

But Kent doesn’t feel the same way. And there are nightmares, too. Fraught, anxiety-driven nightmares, like the recurring one where his brakes suddenly cut out on the drive to the arena, and he wakes just before the crash. Chewing on a bite of steak, only to have it turn to a mouthful of sawdust. Skating across a pond, and the ice suddenly begins to crack: huge, cavernous divides with the gaping maw full of dark water beneath.

In the mornings, he speeds through his routine. When he kisses Bittle goodbye, it’s rushed and far too hard; but with how busy he is, Bittle reminds himself that it’s nice that Jack remembers to do it at all.

Sometimes Bittle thinks about that snap from back in December. How happy Jack looked, talking to someone, anyone, other than him. But Jack has never been as dedicated to him as he has been to hockey, Bittle reasons with himself. He’s used to playing second fiddle to Jack’s career, and the only reason it feels different this year is because of the wedding planning. He just wishes Jack could be more present, is all. But he knows what he signed up for. And he’s going to have a husband, soon - isn’t that what he wants?

So Bittle tells Jack one day:

“Hey, Sweet Pea, I’ve been thinking.”

“Hmm?” Jack says, not looking up from where he’s poring over the newspaper.

“I thought something that might -- well, help bring us a little closer together -- would be to announce the engagement.”

Jack looks up, but schools his expression to remain neutral. “Are you sure we’re, uh, ready?”

“I miss you,” Bittle replies, and he comes over to drape his arms around Jack’s wide shoulders. “I think it’s time, you know? We’ve been planning for months, now, and I think this will help… with our... troubles.”

“If… if you insist,” Jack mumbles around the huge lump in his throat. Shit, he’s going to have to do something, and soon. While he ponders, Bittle adds:

“How about we plan the party for June? The playoffs will be over, and Lord willing you get the cup again, we can get the announcement out during the team festivities!” He sounds so fucking delighted by it all. Jack wishes someone, some benevolent deity, would throw a bolt of lightning at his head. 

After a moment’s pause: no such luck.

“Why don’t you plan out some ideas, and I’ll just tell you what I like or don’t?” Jack suggests, wishing he could melt into the floor. “That way, um, the hockey won’t get in the way of the planning, and we’ll both agree on what we want to do.”

“Are you sure? You don’t want more input in the planning?” Bittle asks cautiously. “I mean, I’m happy to do it, if you’d rather focus on hockey --”

“No, no! I meant, uh, that way the hockey doesn’t get too much emphasis, so doesn’t interfere with your, um, vision?” Jack struggles to string together any bullshit that will make sense.

Bittle sighs. “I know, I understand. You mean well. You always mean well!” Jack flinches, but Bittle doesn’t notice, having turned away. He continues, “I’ll throw together some ideas, call a decorator or two, dig up some recipes, and why don’t you come up with the guest list?”

“Okay,” Jack agrees. He can do that. He can do this. 

Once the playoffs are over, he’ll tell Bittle. He’ll tell him everything.

But for now, he’ll let Bittle have this. Have these last few weeks of joy.

***

The third round is brutal. Tater’s out with a concussion, Linds is struggling to play with a fractured wrist, and Jack can barely drag himself out of bed, some mornings. They try -- they try so hard -- but it doesn’t happen. They’re out in game five, the Canes winning at home, and Jack -- miserable as he is -- is still grateful to go home to a bath and a bottle of bourbon the next day.

Bittle says very little, letting Jack take the loss at his own speed. This happens nearly every year, after all. He does give Jack a heavenly shoulder massage -- one Jack feels is deeply undeserved -- but one which he accepts nonetheless.

_Tomorrow_ , he thinks. _I’ll tell him tomorrow._

The next night, they watch the Aces lose in game 7. Bittle seems amused; Jack seems to hide his distress fairly successfully. At least, if Bittle notices, he says nothing.

But Bittle hasn’t been saying much at all, lately; and Jack hasn’t forgotten that Bittle confided in Tater when he noticed that Jack passed on pie at that party. 

Jack manages to call Kent when he dips out for a walk, but Kent doesn’t answer. He leaves a quick message:

“Hey, Parse, it’s me. I saw the game. I know how you feel -- kind of. Call me if you want to talk. I… I miss you.” He hangs up before he can let any more slip.

He doesn’t hear from Kent before he returns home, and he forgets completely about the plan to talk to Bittle, now preoccupied with worrying about Kent.

Bittle asks: “Will you come to bed tonight, Jack?”

And Jack replies: “I, um. Tomorrow, okay? I just need one more night to recover.”

And Bittle looks put out, but agrees. “Tomorrow, then. ‘Night, Sweet Pea.”

Jack feels a wave of relief wash over him when Bittle leaves. He pulls out his phone to text Kent:

Me: Hey bud. I hope you’re with Swoops or someone. Worried about you.

About ten minutes later (he gets absorbed in the nature documentary playing on TV, rather than going to bed), Kent replies:

Kent: Hey, sorry I missed your call. I’m out with the team. Thanks for checking in.

Jack responds:

Me: Of course. Hope you’re all okay.

Kent: You know how it goes. Losing at the worst possible time. We’ll be okay. There’s always next year.

Jack: Yeah. Listen, I know it’s not the best time, but can I call?

Kent doesn’t respond. Jack gets ready for bed, but still falls asleep on the couch.  
He wakes up to a missed call from Kent, several hours after he would have fallen asleep. He fumbles with his phone to clear the notification, still not eager to find out what would happen if Bittle were to see it.

***

Kent drinks entirely too much that night.

He’s grateful -- extremely grateful -- that he already has so many trophies, so many rings and accolades and titles and records. He has nothing to prove to anyone, anymore, really. Life is good.

But, goddamn, did he want the cup this year.

Especially because he would have won it with Jack on the ice. That is, if both of them had made it to the final.

He wouldn’t have won _with_ Jack, of course; but a little voice will always linger, one that tells him he’ll always have to prove himself to be the best, and he wonders if -- if he had won the cup -- it would finally shut the fuck up.

Kent’s not sure he’ll ever get to find out, now.

Luckily, by the time he’s drunk enough and starts running his mouth, grousing and whining, most of the guys have gone home, and Swoops can make excuses for him until time ends.

Swoops finally manages to cram Kent into a taxi, when he’s lost count of how many drinks he’s had.

Kent starts singing, yelling some slurred version of a song Swoops doesn’t recognize.

“What the shit, Kent,” Swoops yells back, trying to cover Kent’s mouth with his hand. Kent bites him, and it takes every ounce of control Swoops has not to smack him.

“You’ve clearly never seen an indie film,” Kent lectures, eyes drooping.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Swoops grumbles through gritted teeth.

“Hey, hey, Swoops,” Kent slurs, patting Swoops on the face. Swoops groans and grabs Kent’s hands, pulling them away despite Kent’s wriggling.

“What, Kent?”

“I gotta… I gotta tell you something.”

“What is it, Kent?” Swoops grumbles. He’s way too sober for this.

“Zimms…. Zimms is in love with me,” Kent states matter-of-factly.

“I know, you’ve told me,” Swoops mutters, mentally willing the cab to drive home faster. He already knows he’s going to have to spend the night at Kent’s side, lest he puke and choke or do something equally stupid, and Sarah is going to be pissed.

“But-but, but Swoops,” Kent cries, pawing at Swoops’s shoulder. “There’s a part you don’t know.”

“What’s that, Kent?” Swoops sounds disinterested, handing a wad of cash to the cab driver as they pull up outside Kent’s apartment building.

“He doesn’t know,” Kent moans, and Swoops yanks him up and out of the seat, praying he doesn’t vomit before they can get to a bathroom.

“What doesn’t he know, Kent?” Swoops is losing his patience, dragging Kent hurriedly across the lobby, as Kent refuses to get a foot down underneath himself, and Swoops is left with his dead weight.

“He doesn’t know,” Kent tries to whisper, but actually kind of yells, “that I love him back.”

The elevator doors have just barely closed, and Swoops promptly drops Kent.

“Oh no you fucking don’t,” he yells. “Hell fucking no.”

“Sad to say,” Kent moans from the floor. “But I do. I really, really do.”

“You told me you wanted nothing to do with him!”

“I lied, mi amigo,” Kent replies somberly, rubbing his elbow, which he thinks might bruise.

“Kent, you can’t,” Swoops begs, stooping down to look at Kent in the face. “You can’t do this to yourself, not again. You can’t do this to me!”

“The heart wants what it wants,” Kent laments. “And the heart wants some fat, French Canadian _ass_.”

“I am going to punch you,” Swoops seethes through his teeth, but he collapses into a heap next to Kent and punches the floor instead. “No. No, no, no, no.”

They arrive at Kent’s floor, and Kent attempts to stand. “Don’ worry, Swoopsie-baby,” he slurs, wavering on his feet. “I’m never gonna tell him. It’s a secret. Just between you and me, Swooooooooops.”

He trips on the edge of the elevator and topples onto the floor outside his penthouse. “Fuck, ow.”

“You deserve this, Kent,” Swoops gripes, getting an arm under him and gathering Kent to his feet. “And you deserve the massive hangover you are going to get. I hope it lasts all day. I hope it lasts two days.”

“I love you, Jeff-Swoops-Troy,” Kent sings, and he promptly vomits on his door mat.

***

Kent wakes up with the hangover to end all hangovers. He stumbles to the bathroom and dry-heaves over the toilet, but nothing comes up. His mouth tastes indescribably bad, so he must have vomited already.

The last thing he remembers is texting Jack.

He stumbles down the hall to the kitchen to scrounge for a Gatorade, and notices Swoops on the couch, watching Star Trek reruns.

“Hey,” Kent croaks. “What’re you doing here?”

“I just saved your ass from alcohol poisoning, lover-boy,” Swoops grunts, turning off the TV. “Gatorade’s on the bottom shelf, by the way.”

Kent had only opened the fridge partway, but nods thankfully anyway.

“What do you mean, ‘lover-boy?’” Kent asks cautiously. He’s pretty sure he already knows the answer -- he doesn’t remember, but he must have said something last night.

“I know about your nasty craving for ‘fat, French-Canadian ass,’” Swoops air-quotes. “You wouldn’t stop talking about him last night.”

“Fuck,” Kent grunts, resting his forehead against the cool granite of the countertop. “I said that?”

“You said that and more,” Swoops finally turns to look at him, expression sour.

“Please tell me I didn’t say it til we got home.”

“Yeah, no, you didn’t,” Swoops says, and Kent lets out a huge groan of relief. “You’re still safely in the closet.”

“Oh, thank you, merciful hockey gods,” Kent groans at the floor. “I can live to die another day.”

“Do you listen to yourself? Like, ever?” Swoops snaps, and Kent finally realizes he’s… angry.

“Swoops, I know this must be disappointing to you,” Kent says warily. “But I swear, I’m not going to… whatever. Jack and I are practically broken up, we haven’t… done anything since before the playoffs.”

Swoops scoffs. “Wow, Kent, that must be a record for you.”

Kent withers. “C’mon, man. I’m doing my best, here.”

“You know you still haven’t thanked me for dragging your ass home last night?” Swoops snorts. “Some fuckin’ friend.”

“I… I thought it was implied,” Kent states. “I am thankful, though. Thank you. I’m glad you’re my friend. Your wife will probably kill me, but I'm still glad.”

“Yeah, well,” Swoops grumbles, still put-out. “Not glad enough to listen to me about Zimmermann, apparently.”

“Hey, come on!” Kent begs again. “Cut me a little slack! It’s hard to sleep with your ex and not get feelings. You did the same fucking thing with Sasha, dude, I don’t get why you’re lecturing me.”

“Because Sasha didn’t have me under her thumb for six years.”

Kent scoffs. “I doubt it was six years.”

“Really? You weren’t the one who had to clean up after you whenever you got too drunk and cried over him. It was six years, Kent, I promise.”

“Well I promise that it’s over with him. Okay? I’ll… I’ll break up with him in person, if it makes you happy.”

“I know that’s just an excuse for you to go have breakup sex with him,” Swoops growls. “But I did the same thing with Sasha, so I have to respect it.”

“Thank you,” Kent replies primly. 

“Speaking of cleaning up after you,” Swoops motions to the door, “you’re gonna need another new welcome mat, because I was not about to mop it up last night.”

Kent groans again and lays down on the kitchen floor.

***

“Hey, Zimms.”

“Hey. I wasn’t sure if I was going to hear back from you,” Jack replies, slowing to a stop in the middle of his run.

“Well, here I am.”

“So what’s up?”

“I was wondering if you’re free on the week of the... 18th.”

“Sure am, why?” Jack responds without even checking.

“I’m coming out to Boston, thought I’d drop by Providence for a couple days.”

Jack pumps his fist in the air and cheers silently, but calms himself before responding, “Oh, yeah, sure, that’d be cool.”

“I’ll get a hotel, then.”

“Sounds great, Kenny,” Jack enthuses, and Kent hangs up, already on the booking page for the hotel where the team stays during games.

Kent is definitely not excited for what’s to come.

But that doesn’t mean he has to spoil it for Jack, too.


	11. ribbon you used to tie yourself to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s all coming so soon, and Jack realizes he has to act fast. It won’t be long until everyone knows about the engagement, and he’ll have to call it off in front of everyone, and Bittle will be so… god, Jack doesn’t even know how Bittle will react.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go!
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me this long, everyone. I treasure each and every one of you, and as always, I really appreciate your feedback and guesses at what will happen! We're closing in on the.. uh, climax, so I hope you're as excited as I am! Hah.
> 
> CW for the f-slur in this chapter.
> 
> Onwards.

Jack knows his situation is getting dangerous. He knows. He’s incredibly jumpy, leaping a foot into the air whenever someone touches him or calls his name; Bittle, in particular, has been scaring the shit out of him on a constant basis.

And yet, he still struggles to do anything about it.

He’s considered calling Shitty more than once. But he’s scared, scared that this will all crumble in his hands and slide through his fingers before he can get a grip, before he control what happens.

So he keeps a tenuous grip on his double life, continuing to smile and nod and agree with Bittle on every detail of the upcoming engagement party.

Bittle has these pretty little invites made up, announcing a party -- though not what kind -- in shiny silver on a dark blue background. The details are printed in embossed white. Not for the first time, Jack thinks that Bittle could, if he wanted to, become a designer of some kind. Bittle leaves one of the invites on the fridge, so Jack gazes at it every time he goes to grab milk or yogurt for a protein shake.

It’s all coming so soon, and Jack realizes he has to act fast. It won’t be long until everyone knows about the engagement, and he’ll have to call it off in front of everyone, and Bittle will be so… god, Jack doesn’t even know how Bittle will react.

Jack, himself, freezes up whenever he thinks about it.

But he’s got to do it. So a few days before the party, he stops Bittle in the kitchen on his way out of the apartment.

“Hey, Bittle,” he says, fidgeting, and failing, as always, to act casually. “Can we talk real quick?”

“Sure, but it has to be super quick,” Bittle replies, already checking the time on his phone. “I need to be early for this appointment, it’s important.”

“Uh, okay,” Jack says, taking a deep breath. “So, about the party --”

Jack’s phone suddenly starts ringing. (The ringtone is an actual ring, because Jack’s just like that.) He glances at the screen -- which reads KENT PARSON -- and panics.

“I, shit, I, I’m sorry, I gotta take this,” he says, clutching the screen to his chest so Bittle can’t see. 

“That’s fine, Jack, but I have to go! Talk later,” Bittle declares before he turns to stride out the door.

Jack takes another deep breath before he answers, at the last possible second before it goes to voicemail.

“Hey,” he gasps, heart stuttering in his chest.

“Hey, you okay? You sound like you just ran a marathon.”

“Uh, close,” Jack gulps. “I tried -- I almost -- I was going to tell him the truth, but he ran out.”

“Ouch,” Kent murmurs. But his tone brightens before he adds, “So I have a flight booked into Boston, then a car rental to head to Providence on the 18th. I’ll stay a couple days, then I’ll head to Boston on the 20th. That work for you?”

“Yeah!” Jack breathes. “Yeah, that’s perfect, Parse.”

Kent laughs lightly. “Okay, Mister Eager. I’ll see you then.”

“Um, Parse, wait,” Jack says, and Kent grunts for him to continue. “Uh, what are you up to right now?”

“Are you serious?” Kent laughs. “It’s, like, 2 pm.”

“Yeah, but I’m alone and I miss you,” Jack intones, already heading back to the guest room. “You up for it?”

Kent sighs, as if this is a major ordeal for him, before laughing and responding, “Sure, I’ll humor you.”

Jack laughs. Kent feels something burn inside of him.

***

Kent arrives in Providence around 5 on the 18th. He texts Jack to let him know he’s there, and offers to drive him around downtown in the showy Miata he rented. Jack rolls his eyes and claims he’d rather order room service.

Bittle is rushing around the apartment, wiping up every speck of dust and arranging all the coffee table photography books just so. He’s already vacuumed and cleaned the pool table.

“What’s the big occasion?” Jack asks, and Bittle casts him a withering glance.

“Ha ha, Jack,” he mutters. “Hey, would you mind running out to grab some ice? I only have one small bag and I don’t think it’ll be enough.”

“Sure, sure,” Jack replies absently, scrolling through his phone. He wriggles into his shoes, thankful Bittle isn’t watching him grab his backpack, and heads out with a quick “see you tonight!” tossed over his shoulder.

Bittle opens the oven and checks on the desserts baking. Something has started smoking, and he shrieks, rushing to get oven mitts to remove it. He curses silently, not sure if he has enough time to make a new pan before the party starts.

Jack does not get ice. He heads straight to Kent’s hotel instead.

***

True to his word, Kent lets Jack order room service when he arrives. “I’m weirdly hungry,” Jack says, wrapping his arms around Kent’s shoulders. Kent sighs, but makes no move to free himself. Jack rests his head on top of Kent’s, tiptoeing in order to do so. “God, Kenny,” he whispers. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Things rough at home?” Kent asks. “You told him yet?”

“I was going to,” Jack replies, “but you interrupted.”

“Damn it, Zimms,” Kent says, and Jack sees his frustrated expression reflected in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. 

“I’m gonna do it,” Jack promises. “I promise, Kenny, it’s practically already over.”

“Does he know that?” Kent replies, unamused. 

Jack pauses for a moment. “I mean, we haven’t slept together since October.”

“That’s rough.” Kent tries to remain casual; he’s not sure if he achieves it, but Jack is dense enough that he doesn’t pick up on Kent’s worry, despite his restlessness.

“It’s fine,” Jack says, finally releasing Kent. Kent turns to face him. 

“That so?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Jack breathes, then leans down into Kent’s space once again. “It’s fine because I have you.”

Kent swallows, and glances away. Luckily, he doesn’t have to say anything, because at that moment there’s a knock on the door. Their food has arrived.

Kent isn’t as prepared for this as he thought. He doesn’t want to listen to Jack reminisce about Rimouski as they inhale their burgers. He doesn’t want to think about how in love Jack was, and he didn’t even know it.

But Jack sure tells him anyway.

“That one time, when we went to the 24-hour Tim’s,” he says around a mouthful of burger. “And we were so high.”

“You were so high,” Kent retorts, and takes another bite. He chews a little before adding, “I was cool as a cucumber.”

“You tried to throw Timbits at me,” Jack points out. “The powdered kind! They exploded all over the floor and you tried to flirt with the poor employee who had to clean it up. You seriously want me to think you did that sober?”

“I wanted you to try to catch them in your mouth, you dumb shit,” Kent accuses, grinning. “You really don’t remember?”

“Nah,” Jack replies. He swallows, finally. “I was also pretty drunk.”

Kent just shakes his head. “How did I not know that?”

“You came to the party late that night,” Jack pointed out. “You were out with Becca first, and Jake Moorin dragged me out in your place.”

“Ah, yes, Becca,” Kent says, faux-dreamily. Then he mutters, “She sucked. I wonder how she is now.”

“Married, probably,” Jack replies. “Everyone our age seems to be.”

“Everyone but us,” Kent sighs. “I’m not even out of the closet.”

“Hey,” Jack starts. “You ever think about it?”

“‘Bout what? Coming out?” Kent asks. He’s clearing their empty plates, putting them on the tray outside the door.

“Nah. Getting married.”

Kent looks off into nothingness for a moment. “Hmm. Not really.”

“Really?” Jack asks. “You never think about it?”

“I just don’t feel like it’s in the cards for me, I guess,” Kent says with a shrug. “I want to play for as long as possible, and I can’t come out while I’m still playing, so.”

“Why not?” Jack asks.

“Why not what?”

“Why can’t you come out?”

“Well, my teammates, for one,” Kent counts on his fingers. “And for another, I’ve been called ‘faggot’ enough times from people who think I’m straight.”

“I won’t say it’s easy.” Jack watches Kent intently as Kent settles back onto the bed. “But it’s kind of worth it, I guess? I mean, if anyone hurts you --” Kent flinches, thinking of the time Jack got his arm broken after a really rough check, the season after he came out “-- they get suspended,” Jack continues. Kent just shakes his head.

“I’m not that strong, Zimms,” he insists. 

“But --” 

“Jack, I said no,” Kent replies firmly. “I’m not going to come out while I’m in the NHL. I just don’t want to, okay? Swoops knows, you know, and that’s good enough for me.”

Jack looks weirdly put out.

“Hey, c’mon,” Kent coaxes, pulling Jack into his arms. “It’s not a big deal, okay? I’m used to it.”

“It’s not that,” Jack replies, sullen.

“Then what? What’s got your panties in a twist?” Kent shakes Jack lightly.

“I just… I don’t know. It’s not important.”

“If you insist.” Kent rests the side of his head on top of Jack’s, fully aware that this is the last time he’ll be able to do so.

He takes a deep breath, ready to lay everything on the table, when Jack shifts, twists around and kisses him.

And Kent can’t help it; he kisses back, hard. If this is it, he’s going to enjoy it, damn it.

Jack pulls away and rests his forehead on Kent’s shoulder. “Kenny,” he says. “I have… something kind of weird to ask you.”

“Yeah?” Kent replies, a small smile playing on his lips. “How weird?”

“Like… Kinky?” Jack scrunches up his face; Kent can feel it.

He laughs. “Jack, I think we’ve been kind of doing the kinky thing already.”

“Not like this,” Jack replies, shaking his head -- or doing something kind of like it -- without removing it from Kent’s shoulder.

“Hey, hey,” Kent coos. “Look at me, will you?”

Jack raises his head, and Kent gazes quickly into Jack’s eyes. He’ll never, no matter how hard he tries, get over the coldness and brightness of those irises.

Like a clear winter day.

Kent clears his throat, suddenly coming back to himself. “I want to do what you want, Jack,” he says. “As long as it’s not, like, super weird.”

“You make me feel weird,” Jack admits with a half formed laugh.

“Uh, thanks?” Kent shakes his head. “What do you want, baby?” he asks instead, reaching out to touch Jack’s hair. Jack catches his hand in his own before it can get there.

“This,” Jack says, bringing Kent’s hand to his mouth and kissing the palm. 

“What, you want me to finger you?”

“Well, at first,” Jack says sheepishly, now holding Kent’s hand so he can kiss the knuckles. “I, um… I want… all of it.”

Kent thinks his brain might have exploded.

“Uh, Jack, I’m not sure if that’s… I mean, do you really -- uh?” Kent can’t even string a full sentence together, he’s so blown away.

Jack laughs quietly, looking away. “I haven’t, well, done this before, but I looked some stuff up. I brought gloves and lube, in case you didn’t have the right kind.”

Kent is simply speechless.

“Um,” Jack whispers. “If… if that’s okay?”

Kent takes a steeling breath before replying, “Yeah, Zimms. I think it can be arranged.”

Jack grins, and Kent kisses it right off of him.

“Go shower,” Kent says, and Jack nods like it was his plan all along. Kent slaps his ass when he’s up, and Jack laughs. 

Jack empties his backpack first, letting Kent explore the contents while he’s busy getting clean.

He comes back, hair damp and naked skin scrubbed pink, and crawls onto the bed.

“How do you want me?” Jack asks, and before he can respond, Kent kisses him.

“However you’re most comfortable,” Kent replies. “Do you want me to start with gloves, or without?”

“Ummm, probably with?” Jack decides. “That way, if we get carried away, we’re… uh, prepared?”

Kent laughs. “Okay, Eagle Scout.” Jack smiles and smacks him on the shoulder.

“Hey, by the way,” he adds. “You should lose the clothes, too, asshole.”

“Your asshole is the star of the show, here,” Kent jokes, and cracks up at himself. Jack smacks him again, and Kent tries to control his giggling.

“Okay, okay,” he says, and strips out of his shirt and pants. “These, too?” he asks, thumbing the waist of his boxer briefs, and Jack nods. 

“I’ll take care of them, though,” he says, crowding Kent and manhandling him onto his back so that he’s in a position where Jack can remove them.

Kent sighs when Jack pulls them down, his half-boner already standing partway at attention. Jack kisses the head of his cock, and Kent sighs dreamily, pretending, just for a moment, that this won’t end soon enough.

“You want me to --?” Jack starts, taking Kent’s cock into his hand and working it to hardness. “I can, um, before we start…”

Kent moans, but gathers his words quickly. “It’s okay,” he says. “I’d rather take care of you tonight, if that’s okay.”

“Okay,” Jack agrees, hopping back up onto the bed and lying down. “I’m not… I don’t know how long this will take, so I thought I’d offer.”

“Well, we’ll find out, won’t we?” Kent promises, pulling a glove onto his hand and letting the nitrile slap against his skin. “Haha, ouch.”

Jack rolls his eyes, but he’s endeared nonetheless.

***

Back at their apartment, Bittle is fretting about the party.

People have started to arrive, and Jack is nowhere to be found. 

“You okay, Bitty?” Tater asks, putting a hand on Bittle’s shoulder. Bittle shakes his head.

“Can you call Jack for me? Or head down to the store, see if he’s there?” Tater nods, hugs Bittle, and exits as Snowy is arriving with his wife.

“Where’s he going?” Snowy asks, and Bittle lets out an anxious sob.

“Jack’s not here, and he’s not answering his phone,” Bittle cries, and Snowy’s stomach leaps.

_No_ , he thinks. _He wouldn’t._

He says nothing, instead comforting Bittle, assuring him that Jack will be along soon enough.

But everyone is calling Jack, and Jack isn’t answering. His phone is off, voicemail inbox is full, and when people offer to go look for him, they come back empty handed.

Bittle doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know what to do.

It isn’t until the guests run out of ideas and options, and he starts shooing them out, that he stops worrying and starts to get angry.

***

Kent starts with just a couple fingers, and of course it feels good because Jack’s been through this part before. It starts to hurt by the fourth finger, but Kent isn’t in any rush -- he listens to Jack walk him through it up until that point, and then takes even longer to act further.

“I’m good, Kenny,” Jack announces, but Kent doesn’t curl his fingers just yet.

“I’m gonna give it another minute,” Kent murmurs, stroking Jack’s hip with his other hand. “We have all night, babe.”

“I know, I just -- I really, really want you,” Jack whines, and then his moans quake when Kent starts to bend his hand.

“Keep telling me how you feel,” Kent commands, and Jack nods, his eyes tearing up a little. “You still okay?”

Jack nods harder and faster, but he clenches the sheets in his fists, so Kent stops.

“Hey,” he says soothingly. “You really still okay with this? Don’t lie to me. We can stop if you want.”

“Kent, I just… it feels so… it feels so good, Kenny, please don’t stop,” Jack cries, and the red around his irises makes the blue practically glow.

Kent can’t describe what he’s feeling. It’s almost a religious experience, seeing his fist -- his entire fist, fuck -- disappear into Jack. He's practically ecstatic, and can't seem to get his heart to stop pounding.

Jack, on the other hand, whimpers, and Kent suddenly panics.

“Okay, baby, it’s okay,” Kent says. “I can pull out, I can go really slow, I can --”

“No,” Jack gasps. “No, absolutely not, don’t you dare --”

“Okay!” Kent reassures him. “I won’t, baby, I won’t pull out, just -- just tell me what to do, Zimms.”

Jack exhales and clenches his eyes shut, and the tears overflow onto his cheeks. “Can you just -- just a little, just move a little --”

“In or out?” Kent asks, trying to sound calm. He’s not sure he quite manages it.

“In, in, goddamnit,” Jack swears, and Kent almost laughs, but stops himself just in time.

“Yeah, baby, I got you,” he murmurs instead, and moves his hand ever so slightly. 

Kent’s never heard anything quite like the moan that escapes Jack’s lips. 

He wants to hear it again.

So he pulls back, very, very slowly, and pushes in, as slow as he thinks he can possibly manage, and Jack is nearly sobbing.

“What do you need?” Kent asks again, using his free hand to rub circles into Jack’s arm. “It’s okay, baby, I’m here, I’m here for you.”

“Can you -- can you touch me?” Jack gasps, and Kent nods furiously, even though he doesn’t think Jack’s even looking. He gets a hand around Jack’s cock and gropes him, not moving his fist, and Jack shudders. “You can move, too,” Jack suggests, not gently. Kent laughs a little maniacally.

“Babe, I’m not sure I have the, uh, coordination,” Kent admits. Jack finally opens his eyes to look at Kent, and Kent feels his gaze boring into his soul.

“Do your best?” Jack offers, and Kent just nods.

Jack comes almost immediately, and Kent counts his blessings, because he’s not sure he would have been able to handle that kind of coordination for long.

“What next, Zimms?”

“I, uh.” Jack’s brain must be completely fried, because what he says next makes very little sense. “Can you keep… keep going?”

“What the fuck, Jack.” Kent nearly cackles. He’s absolutely incredulous, but he agrees. “Okay, I will,” he says, and fucks his fist unbearably slow back into Jack. Jack’s face contorts into something beyond ecstasy, and Kent doesn’t know how, but he thinks he gets it.

It seems like it takes ages, but Jack finally exhales. “Okay, okay,” he says, sounding like he’s just finished a marathon. “You can pull out, but do it really slow, and I also kind of have to… uh, push? So it might feel weird.”

“Babe, this was worth it,” Kent reassures him, so Jack breathes deeply and says, “Okay, now,” and Kent, glacially slow, pulls his hand out.

“Wow,” Kent says as he dumps the glove in the trash. “Wow, wow, wow.” 

“We’re not finished,” Jack calls from the bed, and Kent just stares.

“What are you talking about? Jack?”

“It’s your turn.” Jack motions for Kent to come back. Kent drapes himself across Jack’s body, looking into his eyes once more.

“Jack, your hands are fucking huge, I’m not going to be able to take one of those.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jack says, reaching up to stroke Kent’s cheek. “Kenny, I want you to fuck me.”

If this were a cartoon, steam would be leaking out of Kent’s ears. His face would be bright red -- hell, it might be bright red anyway.

“Jack, you’re kidding me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are fucking messing with me!”

“For fuck’s sake, Kent, if you don’t fuck me I’ll --”

“Okay, okay!” Kent relents. “Oh my god, Jesus and Mary. You’re sending me straight to hell, Zimms.”

“Since when are you religious?” Jack jokes, and Kent throws his head back, barking a laugh.

“I worship at the altar of that ass,” Kent replies, and he smacks it for good measure.

“Enough, enough!” Jack laughs. “C’mon, Kenny, please.”

“Please what, Zimms?” Kent replies coyly.

“Please fuck me, you idiot,” Jack snaps, and Kent can’t help it: he has to kiss Jack first, slowly and passionately. “Fuck,” Jack swears when he pulls away.

“Did you bring condoms?” Kent asks, digging through Jack’s backpack over the side of the bed.

“We… don’t use condoms,” Jack states, sounding deeply confused.

“Well, I don’t know,” Kent throws his hands up. “I feel like I should use one when we went to the trouble to use a glove.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack says, literally waving it off. “Please just get a move on, Parse.”

“Impatient,” Parse mutters, but he lines himself up anyway.

He’s not sure what he expected. Jack isn’t… well, he is, but he doesn’t feel loose. More… soft? It drives Kent crazy, fucking Jack like this, and it isn’t long before he’s a moment away from his own orgasm.

“Kenny, Kenny,” Jack cries. “God, you’re so… Kenny, I love you,” Jack shouts, at the very moment Kent comes inside him.

Kent stills his hips, eyes shut, and clenches his teeth. 

_Goddamnit_ , he thinks. _God fucking damn it, Jack._

“Um,” he says instead. “I… wow.” He pulls out and turns away, suddenly overwhelmed.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Jack immediately backtracks. “I’m sorry, I just -- in the moment, I -- but I -- Jesus, I --”

“It’s okay, Jack, you don’t have to explain,” Kent says, all in one exhale. He doesn’t know how he’s going to do what he has to, now.

“Um… Kenny, are you okay?” Jack sits up with a great deal of effort, and puts his hand on Kent’s shoulder. Kent flinches, and Jack quickly withdraws. 

“Yeah, Jack, I’m… I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” Jack’s voice is so small.

“I think we need to talk,” Kent replies, and he finally turns back around, eyes glassy. “But in the morning, okay? You need rest, Jack.”

“O-okay,” Jack stammers, but Kent lies down next to him, and wraps his arm around Jack’s waist, and tucks his head under Jack’s chin, so he takes what he’s given and doesn’t question it.

He sleeps the most soundly he has in months, but wakes up cold, Kent already in the bathroom when his eyes finally creak open.

Kent comes back looking wary, as if Jack were something wild; something to be regarded carefully.

“Jack, about last night.” Kent doesn’t even say good morning.

Jack wasn’t supposed to do this again.

Jack wasn’t supposed to say anything about love again.

But he did.

And Kent doesn’t know what to say. So he says nothing, even though he was clearly leading up to… something.

“I… I meant what I said,” Jack says cautiously. “Is that okay?”

“Honestly, Jack, I don’t… I don’t think so.” Kent pulls on his boxers and starts tidying the mess around them, a sure tell of the fact that he’s not happy to be having this conversation. Kent only cleans when he’s avoiding something, Jack remembers very clearly.

“So.. what? You don’t love me back? All this, and you don’t feel anything back?”

“I didn’t say that,” Kent murmurs, back still turned.

“So what’s the issue?”

“I’m just… I can’t do this.”

“What, the sex?”

“No, the sex is good. The sex is great. The sex is not what I’m worried about.”

“So why are you --”

“Can we just leave it at ‘the sex is great?’ Can you do that for me, Jack?” Kent wonders aloud, eyes scanning the floor. “Can we just stop with all this… love… whatever? I can’t... do it.” His voice is very quiet towards the end.

Jack looks hurt when Kent looks up. But he means what he says: he refuses to fall prey to Jack’s emotions. He just won’t.

“Can’t do what?” Jack asks, quiet as falling snow. “You really just wanted sex?”

“You’re really going to make me do this? Fine. I just wanted sex, does that make you happy?” It kills him to say it, but it needs to be said.

“Do you really mean to tell me you came all this way just to fuck?” Jack blusters.

“Maybe I did,” Kent replies breezily. “What if I did, Jack?”

“I just… I don’t think I believe it.”

“Again, it’s not like I’m out,” Kent snaps. “Some of us can’t just catch tail at the corner store, you know?”

“I don’t catch tail at the corner store,” Jack hisses, suddenly angry.

“Of course not.” Kent raises an eyebrow plaintively. “You have someone at home and you have someone willing to fly out from Las fucking Vegas, why would you need to look anywhere else?”

“Why are you.. Why are you mad? What are you even trying to say?” Jack has never felt so horribly confused.

“I don’t know, Jack,” Kent sighs, and turns away, gathering his clothes. 

“Kent, what if I told you I want to be with you? Like, forever?” Jack blurts out, and Kent pauses.

“Do you, though?” He turns around, twisting sharply.

“I... yeah. I do,” Jack says simply.

Kent turns away again, but not before Jack can glimpse him crushing his eyes shut. Kent heaves a huge breath, and Jack holds his.

“That’s not enough, Jack.”

“Do you love me back?”

“I…” Kent doesn’t know what to say. “Jack, don’t.”

“You do! I know you do!” Jack accuses, and Kent bares his teeth.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel!” Kent insists. “This isn’t about me!”

“What if I called him right now and told him it’s over?” Jack’s voice reaches new levels of desperation.

“Are you really the type of person who would do that?” Kent asks, starting to tug at his hair.

“What does that mean, Kent?” Jack demands.

“Jack, do you ever hear yourself when you talk?”

“What does that mean?”

“All I’m trying to say is that this isn’t about me or him. It’s about you, and if you don’t get your shit straightened out you’re going to lose everything. Not just him, not just me. Everything. Does that make sense?” He buttons his impossibly tight jeans, the elastic of his boxers sticking out over the top, and Jack might pop a half-boner over the definition of his legs, and he hates himself for it.

“So I told you I loved you, and if I told you I was ready to be with you, you’d say… what, you’d say no?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d say no, Jack.”

“You’re not making any sense, Kenny.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why? ‘Cause you’re afraid that I’m in love with you?”

“Cause you’re a disaster, Jack!”

Jack finally doesn’t know what to say. 

“Look, you just had a phenomenal season, and I know that’s your metric for having your shit together.” Kent finally turns around. “But you’re engaged to this guy who doesn’t know you anymore -- who doesn’t know you’re spending all your free time fucking someone else -- and he loves you! You’re obviously not taking care of yourself or Bittle, you’ve lost like thirty pounds, you’re drinking again, and you’re lying to everyone you know! Your fuckbuddy is telling you something is wrong here, and you still don’t get it, Jack! So you need to talk to someone else about how to fix this, because I’m done.” He turns around and struggles his way into his undershirt.

“Done with what, Kent? Done with me? Done with us?” Jack splutters. “It’s not like you’re blameless, here!”

“It was fine until you started talking about leaving him for me,” Kent mutters, grabbing his shirt and shoving his arms through the sleeves. He begins buttoning, punctuating each finished button with a grunt. “You can’t have feelings for me, Jack, not when you’re like this.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” Jack exclaims, but he knows full well he’s wrong, lying through his desperation, and he doesn’t know what else to do.

“If you love me, listen to me,” Kent spits, and finally grabs his wallet and hat from the dresser. “You need help, Jack, and until you get it, I can’t talk to you anymore. Until you get your shit sorted out, I’m done. I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?” Jack asks, his breathing getting shallow.

“To Boston? Home? Who cares?” Kent snarls, yanking his bag up off the floor.

“You’re not supposed to fly home ‘til tomorrow,” Jack finally relents, getting up and starting to get dressed himself. “I’ll leave, okay? You stay here.”

“Jack, you just had my entire hand in your ass, you’re not going anywhere.”

“I’ll be fine, Parse,” Jack snaps, but there’s very little vitriol behind it. He just sounds… defeated.

“Okay. Fine, Jack. But I’m going in the bathroom ‘til you leave, because I don’t want to look at you.” Kent slams the door behind him, and Jack grumbles his way through getting his wrinkled clothes back on. He winces, suddenly very sore, and wishes he hadn’t said a thing the night before; wishes he could have just stayed and settled for whatever Parse wanted to give him.

Little does he know how much worse things can get from here.

***


	12. it's time we danced with the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack races to get home, hailing a taxi and climbing in, then tossing a whole pocketful of cash at the driver when he gets out.
> 
> And Jack was correct: Bittle is beyond furious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH BOY. Hi again! I'm glad you're here! Especially considering it's been... a while since I updated last. I have an explanation, though! I was ANXIOUS. Let's just say I was not confident in the first several drafts of the last chapters of this fic.  
> It's been so important to me to tell this story well, and I would be totally remiss if I didn't feel 100% confident in how I've written the rest of what's to come. LUCKILY, I have a wonderful beta for the rest of the trip to the finish line! So many thanks and hugs go to Pau for helping me out here. I couldn't do this without them! Pau, I'm so grateful for you. <3 <3 <3
> 
> I also couldn't do this without all the love from all of you reading and leaving comments. I'm so grateful for the response this fic has gotten - I'm sure I've said this already, but it bears repeating. When I started out, I was predicting that I'd get a lot of hate for the way I treat such beloved characters in this little self-indulgent fic, but I'm overwhelmed with joy that the response could not be more to the opposite of my expectations.
> 
> I don't know why I'm writing all this out! It's not over yet! The point is, I hope you're still interested and still with me, despite the small hiatus I took while freaking out that I'm a shit writer who writes shit. I feel a lot better now.
> 
> THAT SAID, I can't make any promises that the rest will update in a timely manner. I'm traveling soon, and might not have time to keep working on this consistently til I get back. I'm very sorry about this. But I can promise it has not been abandoned. So... there's some good news, at least!
> 
> That's enough blathering. There aren't really any TWs for this chapter; I just hope it works for y'all. See you all at the finish line!

Jack doesn’t check his phone until he’s far away from Parse’s room.

He has dozens of calls and texts, and he immediately begins to panic.

The party. 

The party was last night.

He missed _his own fucking engagement party_.

Bittle is going to be furious.

Beyond furious.

Jack races to get home, hailing a taxi and climbing in, then tossing a whole pocketful of cash at the driver when he gets out.

And Jack was correct: Bittle is beyond furious.

His eyes look distant, red-rimmed and swollen when Jack finally crosses through the doorway into the apartment. Bittle is perched on the couch, TV off, mug in front of him, and Jack realizes he hasn’t even figured out what to say yet.

“Bits, I—I’m so—”

“Don’t, Jack,” Bittle says quietly. “I don’t want to know where you were. I don’t want to hear any excuses. I want you out.”

“I—”

“No,” Bittle says, raising his voice ever so slightly, not even looking at Jack. “Please just go.”

Jack says nothing. He turns to the hallway and stalks quietly to the guest room that’s become his space, fetches a few things, and re-enters the living room with a half-empty bag, panic-stricken.

He has to say something now. There’s no way out.

“Bittle, I—”

“Jack, I said—”

“I’ve been cheating on you, Bits.” Bittle very determinedly does not look at Jack, preferring to stick his gaze in the distance.

“Yeah, Jack, I know,” he replies coldly.

Jack swallows.

“You know?”

“How could I not?” Bittle sobs, finally looking up at Jack. “You’ve been a completely different person for months. You haven’t been telling me where you’re going, haven’t been calling me after games all season, you completely missed our party, I just—Jack, do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No, Bits, no,” Jack tries to sound soothing, but his blood pressure is through the roof and he’s shaking like a leaf. He can hear it in his voice.

Bittle swipes at his eyes, but he’s already stopped sniffling. “We’ll talk later, okay, Jack? But I want you out. Now.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack murmurs. “Just… for everything.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” 

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I said go.”

Jack leaves.

He doesn’t know where he’s going to go. He can’t go back to the hotel; he can’t go to a teammate’s, not after last night.

He throws his stuff into his car, unlocks his phone, and pulls open his contacts.

***

Jack drives all the way to Boston in silence. He wants to rip his brain out. He wants to rip his heart out. He feels incredibly, dangerously empty—Bittle’s fury only compounding the pain from the loss of Kent. Despite everything, he never wanted it to end this way. He feels like there’s nothing left now. He realizes he deserves it, and that only makes him feel worse.

Shitty answers the door and lets him in, looking concerned. Jack is endlessly thankful that Shitty hadn’t made it to the party; it’s exam week, he’s in the middle of grading papers, and he only told Jack he could come over because Jack said that it was an emergency.

Shitty’s concern doesn’t last.

“You did what?” he demands, eyes boggling, when Jack tells him—mostly—what happened.

“I… I did.”

“And you only told him now?”

“Yeah, Shits, I know.”

Shitty looks at him like he’s seeing a complete stranger. A complete stranger who just committed murder.

“Start at the beginning,” Shitty says, a bottle of beer in his hand. Jack had asked for water, if only to keep himself from turning into a blubbering mess.

“It was an accident,” Jack says, and Shits just snorts disbelievingly.

“I swear,” Jack insists. “I was going to send, um, a dirty snap to Bits, and I sent it to the wrong person.”

“Kent,” Shitty supplies, and Jack nods. There’s so much anguish in his face that Shitty decides he can lighten up on the judgment a little.

“And he… what, he just went for it?” he asks carefully.

“He did,” Jack replies. “Trust me, I don’t understand why. And it just… it was like a landslide, Shits. A runaway train. Before I knew what was happening he was fucking me in his bed after we lost to them in January.”

“Ouch,” Shitty replies, polishing off the bottle. “And, um, a little TMI?” He rolls a bit of his mustache between his fingers. “So where was Bitty when all of this was happening?”

“Apparently he kind of knew,” Jack murmurs. “Well, he put together the cheating part. He still doesn’t know who, or... I really hope he doesn’t.”

“You’re gonna have to tell him that, too,” Shitty points out, unhelpfully.

“Yeah, I know,” Jack replies, running a hand down his burning face.

“So, like,” Shitty starts again. “I hate to say it, but you look like shit, Jack.”

“Thanks, I know,” Jack snaps.

“Well, you seem like you’re, uh, how should I put this delicately?” Shitty ponders aloud. “Gone off the fucking rails, my friend.”

Jack just slumps, putting his face in his hands again.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

“You just said that.”

“The other beginning,” Shitty sighs, exasperated. “You know what I mean.”

Jack groans, but acquiesces. 

“Okay, so sometime in October, Bittle decided that he wanted to get married.”

“Did you give him any hints that you thought this was a good idea, too?”

“I don’t know, I don’t think so?” Jack wonders aloud. “I mean, I was really focused on hockey at the time.”

“Maybe Bits was just hoping you’d pay him some attention?” Shitty suggests.

“I guess that’s possible,” Jack muses. “Lord knows he deserved more than I gave him.”

“That sounds like something Bitty would say,” Shitty remarks. Jack is confronted with the thought that, well, Bittle’s been a huge influence on him, whether he likes it or not; he thinks, ruefully, of the moment, all those years ago, when he first kissed Bittle in what was once his room at the Haus. It seemed like the right thing to do, at the time. Begging forgiveness seems like the right thing to do now; but what if he looks back on this moment, seven years from now, and regrets this, too? He's so unsure, grappling with too many answers to know which is the right one.

Jack laughs weakly. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“So you didn’t want to get married, did you?”

“What do you think?” Jack says, and Shitty gives him this _look_ , so he immediately retreats and says, “sorry…. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Shitty replies easily, rising to get another drink. “Thanks for apologizing. So anyway, you didn’t want to get married, so you, what, cheated on him?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Then enlighten me?” he asks, leaning on the kitchen doorframe. 

Jack’s stomach feels suddenly full of something dense and sharp.

“I guess… maybe it was that simple.”

“Why, Jack? Why cheat on Bits? This is just not like you. The you I know would have had the decency to break up with him.”

“I don’t know,” Jack says miserably. “I guess I was… tired of doing what people expected of me, and Bittle had the most expectations of anyone I knew. But Shits, listen, I really fucked up, because now I’m in love with Kent.”

Shitty chokes on his beer. “Fuck, Jack,” he says between coughs.

“I know.” 

“So what are you going to do?”

“I... don’t know.”

“Well, out of loyalty to my bro, you can stay here tonight,” Shitty offers. “But out of loyalty to my other bro, Bitty, you can’t stay here long.”

“That’s reasonable,” Jack says thankfully. “It’d be reasonable if you kicked me out on my ass.”

“I thought about it,” Shitty shrugs. “I’m not really in the business of picking up your messes anymore. But you’re obviously in need of a friend, and I can always be that for you.”

“Thanks,” Jack breathes. “Thank you so much.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“No,” Jack says. “Oh, wait! My dad does.”

“You told Bad Bob you were cheating on your boyfriend?” Shitty gasps.

“Not in so many words,” Jack replies sheepishly. “But, well, kind of, yeah.”

Shitty looks even more awestruck than he has all night. “Well, I’ll drink to that,” he says, and polishes off the last sip in the bottle.

***

Jack wakes up intermittently throughout the night, unable to get comfortable on Shitty’s second hand couch. He thinks about texting Bittle; thinks about what he might say. He doesn’t think he’ll beg for forgiveness at this point—he just wants to apologize. He also doesn’t think Bittle will accept it, but that’s up to Bittle—and a little bit up to how well Jack manages to apologize.

He’s back in his car and back on the road to Providence early the next morning. He calls Bittle, but he doesn’t answer. Jack leaves a voicemail, detailing that he plans on returning soon, and asking—begging—Bittle to please call him back if he won’t be home.

Jack pulls into his parking space, next to Bittle’s, and Bittle’s truck is there, so Jack guesses he must be inside.

He enters the apartment they share quietly, but it’s not necessary; Bittle is awake and parked at the table, scanning the contents of another magazine, sugary coffee in hand. 

“Hi, Jack.”

“Hi, Bits.”

“I hope you’re here to grovel.”

“Uh”, Jack responds, not sure what to say. Bittle flips the magazine shut, but doesn’t look at Jack. “Bittle, I know I did wrong by you,” he chokes out. “I fucked up so badly. You deserve so much better than what I’ve given you, all of these years, and I’m sorry I… I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

“Oh, Jack, stop,” Bittle says, taking his coffee in hand. “I wasn’t serious about the groveling.”

“Um… oh,” Jack replies. Now he’s just lost.

“Sit,” Bittle commands, so Jack drops his keys in the bowl on the table by the door and makes his way over to the table.

“Jack,” Bittle begins, finally making eye contact. “You lied to me, led me on, and scared me. You embarrassed me in front of our friends. You… you didn’t care about me when I needed you. And I let it go on so much longer than I should have.”

“Bittle,” Jack tries to interrupt, but Bittle holds up a hand, and Jack knows to stop.

“Who was it?” Bittle asks, his eyes dark.

“I… it…” Despite everything that’s happened, Jack still doesn’t want to do this. He takes a breath. “It was Kent Parson.”

Bittle blanches. “I thought you stopped talking to him years ago.”

“I started talking to him again last year,” Jack admits. It takes everything in him to maintain eye contact. “I… I meant to… When it all started, it started because I meant to send something to you, and accidentally sent it to him instead. He responded and--”

“I don’t want to know,” Bittle snaps. “God, you lied about that too? You said things were just— just physical with him! And that they ended!”

“I… I lied,” Jack murmurs, and he finally looks away, so he hears, rather than sees, when Bittle slams a hand on the table. When Jack looks back, there are tears in Bittle’s eyes.

“Bittle, I—I’m sorry,” Jack says, and he’s running out of ideas on what else he can say.

He isn’t ready for this kind of a fight.

“You were with him, weren’t you?” Bittle hiccups. “Night before last, instead of coming to the party. He was here, in Providence. Wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Jack nearly whispers. “But he, um, he left me, so.”

“Oh, well, fantastic,” Bittle spits. 

_Okay_ , Jack thinks, suddenly annoyed. _If that’s how you want to do this._

“I can’t believe you, you know?” Bittle starts anew. “All this time I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me, come back to how things were.”

“Bittle --”

“Are you crazy?” Bittle interrupts. Jack’s nostrils flare; that was uncalled for. He feels himself tensing, and slowly, deliberately unclenches his jaw.

“Why would throw that all away, all our happiness together?” Bittle whines, and Jack decides he doesn’t feel like groveling anymore.

“I wasn’t happy! I’m really surprised you think that we were!” He shakes his head. “What were _you_ thinking when _you_ decided we were engaged?”

Bittle’s oversized eyes narrow. “I thought you loved me, Jack.”

“You said you figured it out,” Jack continues. “But you had no idea how hard it was --”

“Don’t tell me you regret this,” Bittle says, voice low. “You’re the one who came to me, Jack. It was your choice to be with me. It was your choice to tell everyone about us, and it was your choice to kiss me at the cup final!”

“You think you didn’t pressure me to do all those things?” Jack counters. “You, with the pies and the crying and the ‘bless your heart!’ You’re not charming, you’re selfish, and you didn’t even care what it did to me!”

“I'm not the selfish one!" Bitty growls. "You cheated on me! With Kent Parson! Of all people!”

“You would have married anyone as long as he could have gotten you more followers on Twitter!”

“Fuck you, Jack,” Bittle spits, tears streaming from his eyes, and Jack realizes with a jolt what he’s just done.

All his fury fades. 

“ _Crisse_ , Bittle, I... I’m sorry. I… fuck.”

Bittle’s lip wobbles, and he covers his eyes with his hands. He sniffles.

“I think you should leave.”

Jack nods slowly, clenching his eyes shut. “I am sorry.”

“I don’t care.”

“Bittle, I -- I want you to know,” Jack murmurs. “I did love you. I thought we were going to make it, once. But.” He’s shaking slightly, pausing for a moment before saying what he should have said from the start. The thing he’s been afraid to admit for so long, perched on the tip of his tongue. “I just… don’t feel the same way about you as I do about Kent.”

Bittle heaves an enormous sigh and leans back, wiping at his cheeks. “Yeah, Jack, I… I know.”

“I’m sorry I did this to you. I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry I’m so shit at groveling.”

Bittle ignores him. “You should get your things,” he suggests quietly. “What you need for a few days, anyway.”

“Okay,” Jack surrenders. “I’ll, uh, I’ll have some movers come get the rest.”

“Don’t bother, I’m not staying here much longer.”

“Bittle, you should keep the apartment.”

“It reminds me of you,” Bittle snaps again, and Jack feels about a foot tall.

So he stands, nodding, and moves toward the guest room to gather a few more things. 

He finds an AirBNB where he can set up shop for a few days while he looks for a new place to live, and for a realtor to help sell his current place. His phone remains conspicuously quiet, save for the occasional email, most of them spam or from the Falcs PR.

He spends a few quiet moments lost in thought. He doesn’t know what his next moves will be; without hockey, Bittle or Kent, he doesn’t have much to ground him. He texts Shitty that his apology didn’t do much good, but he doesn’t hear back. It’s just as well; Shitty has better things to do than console him, especially when this whole mess is his fault.

On a whim, he decides to call Snowy.

He answers after three rings. “Hey, fucker. You done breaking that poor boy’s heart yet?”

“Oh, fuck.” Jack clenches his eyes shut.

Snowy was at the party. Snowy must have figured it out.

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘oh fuck,’” Snowy spits.

“You know.” Jack silences a groan.

“Yeah. I do.”

“Snowy, I—”

“Don’t bother, Jack. I don’t care what you have to say. See you at training camp.” He hangs up.

Jack has no idea how he’s going to approach that one. He decides to call George, but she doesn’t answer; he leaves a quick voicemail.

“Hey, Georgia, it’s Jack. Listen, I know you were at the party, and I know you know that I… I fucked up. I need to talk to you. Call me when you can.”

Suddenly, he remembers there’s actually a perfect person to talk to. His father didn’t even judge too much when he found out about Kent. Maybe he’ll have some encouraging words to spare.

But Bob doesn’t answer the phone. Jack tries twice, and each time he gets Bob’s voicemail.

He hangs up, then drops the phone. It clatters on the coffee table, and Jack resigns himself to the silence.

It’s oppressive.

Because now he’s really, really alone.

_And it’s all my fault._

What was Jack really doing this year?

All the heartbreak, all the melodrama—what was it all for?

And he feels his eyes flood, for the first time since this whole shitshow began.

Because he doesn’t know.

Because maybe it was all for nothing.

Because maybe he can’t stop himself from ruining things, and maybe he will always ruin things. 

Maybe he will never be able to repair his life.

And that thought terrifies him.

He lets out a feral scream, curled up and shaking, on a stranger’s couch in a stranger’s apartment in Providence, Rhode Island, where everyone seems to hate him.

But slowly, the screams turn to sobs, and the sobs turn into cries, and the cries to whimpers; until all that’s left are the sounds of his breathing and the traffic outside.

By now it’s dark, and Jack has no idea how long he’s been lying on the couch. 

He finally musters up the will to sit up and turn on the lamp. It doesn’t lighten the room much, but it does illuminate Jack’s phone where he left it on the table.

He picks it up, but there’s nothing new happening. He sighs, feeling defeated. 

He gets up to wash his face, and almost doubles over in pain. It feels crazy to smile, but he wants to when he realizes that, for the first time in ages, he’s ravenously hungry.

Everything else fades away as he shoves on his shoes and thunders down the stairs to the street, sure he looks like shit, and walks to the nearest cafe.

He had almost forgotten what this felt like. 

It’s too early to tell, but he hopes this is a good sign.

***

Days pass, and Jack spends them alone.

When he returns to the apartment, it feels barren. All of Bittle’s things are gone; all evidence of the life they shared together has disappeared. The apartment itself is a relic of Jack’s past, a monument to everything he’d given up, and he feels so overwhelmed that for a while, the best he can do is lie in bed. But he starts to feel antsy—he’s used to being active, even in the summer—and before long, he’s established a basic routine that he can essentially do on autopilot.

He still gets up early and runs every morning. He still prepares and eats whatever food he can manage. He weight trains, he skates a few times, he tries to read; he sleeps fitfully and wakes up feeling hollow.

Early one morning, he finally drifts off to sleep after hours lying awake. He finds himself sitting on the floating dock at the lake house, and he shields his gaze from the beaming sun. After his eyes adjust, he looks to his left - and there’s Kent, in a swimsuit, lazily kicking his legs where they dangle into the water. 

He dreams of this place often, but usually they’re kids. This time, Jack and Kent are their true ages, and it fills Jack with longing that doesn’t usually accompany these dreams.

“Hey,” Jack says. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“I am,” Kent replies. He kicks some water to the side, splashing Jack. “Take that.”

“But why are you here?” Jack asks.

“You clearly want to see me.” Kent smirks, and it’s almost as blinding as the sunlight.

“Will you ever stop being mad at me?” Jack asks, voice full of desperation.

“Of course,” Kent quips. He gazes out across the lake.

“What do I have to do to fix this?” Jack pleads.

“You know exactly what you have to do,” Kent says. He turns back to Jack. “Hey, I’ll race ya to the cabin. Winner gets a kiss from the loser.”

Without warning, he slips off the raft and into the water. He doesn’t resurface. Jack watches the water ripple, full of alarm, and searches frantically for Kent. He dives in, clawing through the darkness, but doesn’t see any sign of where he could have gone.

His eyes burst open. He’s covered in a cold sweat, lying alone in bed. He shivers, clenches his eyes shut, and tries to forget the image of Kent disappearing into the depths.

He can’t fall back asleep, and finds himself lost in thought while he waits for his alarm to go off.

He’s not sure why this dream feels so significant, but he can’t stop thinking about what Kent had said.

_You know exactly what you have to do._

The answer has been staring Jack in the face, but only now does he understand it. 

He needs help.

***

He raids the liquor cabinet and empties every bottle over the sink. He cleans obsessively, though Bittle had left the apartment with little more to do than dust. After all, the last thing Bittle did here was try to throw a party. The place is spotless.

At first, Jack tries to embrace the emptiness. Though he doesn’t want to wallow, he feels he genuinely deserves to feel awful, everything considered.

But days become weeks, and he worries about whether he’s ever going to feel anything else.

There’s radio silence from everyone he knows. (He remembers, too late, that his parents are traveling.) He can’t blame them, because he also doesn’t do much to reach out. He feels that it’s out of line to expect anyone to help, to show sympathy, to grieve with him when he’s spent a whole year acting like no one else existed, no one else mattered but him and Parse. He lied to everyone, and he doesn’t think he deserves them right now.

Still, it hurts.

Jack comes to terms with the fact that he doesn’t enjoy the solitude, despite his efforts to the contrary. Several times this year, he would have given anything for this much time alone. But now he feels he’s starting to dwell, and for all his success at treading water, he comes to the conclusion one morning that he can’t keep living like this.

There’s a lot that needs to happen going forward. Jack recognizes this, but he also has priorities. He wants to start with the most important to him.

That July morning, he has an idea. Before he runs or even eats, he starts to formulate a plan.

First, he checks his email to see if he has anything pressing coming up.

He has a Falcs TV episode to appear in at 9 am on Wednesday.

Second, he checks the flights going out to Vegas that week.

He hasn’t spoken to Parse since their fight a few days ago, and he knows Kent isn’t going to be glad to speak to him; but he has to try, anyway. He says a quick prayer to whoever will listen, and pulls Kent up in his contacts. 

The phone rings and rings. He must be talking to someone, Jack figures, cursing; but Kent picks up, finally, and Jack feels the tiniest iota of hope.

“What?” Kent asks dryly, and Jack wants to sing.

“Parse, hey,” he says quietly, frantically, starting to count his blessings.

“What do you want, Jack?” He’s finding it extremely difficult to parse how Kent’s feeling just from his tone of voice.

“I broke up with Bittle.”

Silence.

“I told him it was you. I told him I love you. I told him all of it, Kent—well, what he would listen to.”

He hears Kent breathing for a brief moment.

“Yeah?” Kent asks, his tone indecipherable. “What happened?”

“It—it wasn’t pretty. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me now.”

“Hmm,” Kent replies. Jack waits for more, but it doesn’t come.

“Kent, I… will you ever forgive me?”

“Honestly, Jack, I don’t think that’s the problem here.”

“Then what is?”

“I’m not… I don’t know, Jack! I can’t give you the things that Bittle could.”

“Is it okay if I come out there? I really wanna talk about this, Kent.”

Kent lets a short breath out through his nose. Jack hears it, and realizes Parse sounds fed up. He doesn’t blame him. “Do what you want, Jack.” He hangs up.

Jack isn’t encouraged, but Kent did technically leave the choice up to him.

He books a flight for 12:45, praying, again, that that’s enough time to get to the airport after the filming.

In a fit of inspiration, he also digs around for the note in his phone where he pasted Kent’s address.

He orders dozens of bouquets of tulips to arrive at Kent’s before he gets there.

He hopes beyond all hope that it’s enough.


	13. not what you thought you were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn’t occur to Jack until he’s on the plane that he never told Kent when he was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO AND WELCOME BACK! First, I'm SO sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out. Very, very sorry. Second, I really hope you are safe and happy, wherever you are. What a time we are living in.
> 
> I've gone through draft after draft since November '19 (!!!) trying to get this out, and I eventually had to step away and dedicate some time to my personal life before I could write something that made me happy. I recently took some shears to two chapters, mashed them together, and came up with this. I hope it satisfies you as much as it satisfies me. 
> 
> Writing this has been an incredible journey. I've appreciated the support and comments more than you know. I love you guys, and I want you to know I couldn't have done it without you. Special thanks go to Sam, who, again, was responsible for a big chunk of this plot, and was a phenomenal beta and cheerleader along the way. More special thanks go to Pau who stepped in when I needed fresh eyes, and without whom I doubt I would have ever finished this fic. So many thanks! Additional thanks to Jared for the writing wisdom, and thanks, finally, to everyone who has followed and enjoyed and let me know what they were thinking. This work was a group effort. Again, I couldn't have done it without you all.
> 
> The chapter count won't be finalized just yet because I've also written an epilogue to be posted sometime soon. So keep an eye out for that! (fun fact: the epilogue was finalized before this chapter was. I'm so relieved to finally be able to post these; the unfinished status of this fic bothered me deeply while I took time away from it.)
> 
> I wish you love and health, and that's all from me. Enjoy!

It doesn’t occur to Jack until he’s on the plane that he never told Kent when he was coming.

He didn’t actually tell Kent he was coming at all.

Filming the end of season episode of Falcs TV earlier that day is icy at best, his teammates shunning him unless they have to act chummy for the cameras. Before they’re on air, and after they’re off, he could be a ghost to them. He feeds them his most upbeat canned responses, and afterward, Tater claps him on the shoulder; but the second they disband, Tater is nowhere to be found.

At least Snowy isn’t there.

Jack’s deeply surprised when he notices someone else waving, trying to get his attention, in his peripheral vision.

He turns, and feels apprehensive when he’s face to face with Dave Christianson, who the guys on the team call Sonny. Jack and Sonny rarely speak, owing to his confusion. Jack also has… feelings about Sonny, who’s incurred both league fines and Jack’s ire for his behavior. That’s also not to mention that Sonny goes through girlfriends like gallons of milk. To put it simply: Jack has very rare conversations with Sonny, and no idea why they should be having one now.

“Hey, man,” Sonny says brightly. His cheery attitude is an extremely strange contrast to how Jack feels.

“Hey,” Jack responds, waving back. He’s polite, after all.

“I just, uh,” Sonny says, lowering his voice. “I heard what happened, dude.”

Jack blanches. “Oh,” he responds. “Um, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sonny replies. “And I noticed that you seem pretty down. I just wanted to say,” he states, sounding more sympathetic than Jack could have thought possible, “that what you’re going through happens to all of us, yeah? The cheating thing - all of us do it. The other guys are being hard on you, but they’ll get over it. In the meantime, if you wanna grab a beer, I’m around this summer.”

Jack forces out a smile and a “thank you,” but after Sonny leaves, he feels sick to his stomach.

His least favorite guy on the team wants to be friends. Jack can’t help himself; he adds that to the list of things to hate about who he’s become. 

He doesn’t feel much better when he runs into Meredith, the Falcs PR lead, on his way out. She has an unnerving look of concern on her face. Unfortunately, he finds that the concern isn’t exactly focused on him.

“Jack, do you realize that this team drama could become a media clusterfuck?” she asks, after they exchange pleasantries. 

“I’m sorry,” he replies. “I… I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it, and I’m sorry about that too.”

She just eyes him impatiently.

“I am!” he says, holding his hands up defensively. “But I really have to go. And I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“Well, you better be back in a week for that stupid endorsement ad you’re supposed to shoot here,” she replies harshly.

“Shit,” he swears under his breath. He had completely forgotten to add that date to his calendar. He shakes his head before he can start thinking about it too much. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be here.”

“Just remember to show up,” Meredith sighs, pretending to fix her perfectly coiffed hair. “I don’t need you running off the rails on me now, Jack.”

He holds back a laugh. He’s not sure he keeps his face from moving, though, and he’s sure she catches it.

“Look,” she says. “I know I’m hard on you, but I’m sorry things are happening this way. I spoke to George and we’re going to set up that meeting for you.”

“Thank you,” Jack replies. “But please, can it happen when I get back?”

“Where are you going?” She asks, with a tone that makes him think she doesn’t really want to know the answer.

“Vegas,” he murmurs sheepishly.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” she stage-whispers.

“You’re not the only one,” he reassures her, and takes his cue to leave.

***

If he’s being honest, Jack is so anxious and wired by the time he arrives at Kent’s, he’d forgotten completely about the flowers. When he arrives at Kent’s door, they’re arranged artfully outside, spilling into the hallway in masses of bouquets of white. 

It’s also clear that Kent hasn’t been home for hours, judging by their slightly wilted state.

He sighs, picking up a bouquet and settling down in its place. If he has to wait, then so be it.

He could use the time to rehearse his speech, but instead he uses the time to drift gently to sleep, leaning on the wall.

The next thing he knows, he’s being nudged awake. He hears a whispered “Jesus, Jack,” and opens his groggy eyes to a view of Kent, glowing from an afternoon outside.

“Kenny,” he whispers, still half-asleep, and rubs his eyes so they’ll adjust faster. “Hi,” he adds, and he can’t read the look on Kent’s face. His eyes are the clearest green, the green from his dream, and a fresh peal of freckles dots his cheeks, thanks to the early summer sun.

Looming over them, looking downright pissed, is Jeff Troy.

“Hi,” he repeats, this time looking at Jeff.

Jeff says nothing, instead folding his arms across his chest and looking away.

“Uh, Swoops?” Kent says, standing to meet him. “Could you give us—uh—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Swoops says, toeing a bouquet. “I’ll see you soon, Parser.” He turns to leave, and Jack refocuses on Kent.

“Jack, what —what the fuck?” Kent asks, voice low, leaning down and giving him a hand. He hauls Jack up to his feet, and Jack resists the powerful urge to touch him all over.

“Kent, I’m sorry to just show up like this.”

“Just come inside,” Kent says quietly, suddenly stooping to pick up a bouquet. Jack nods and follows him after he unlocks the door.

Kent stands in the entryway, looking expectant. Jack shuffles on his feet.

“I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

“I can’t believe you let me in.”

“Same, kinda. You got something to say?”

Jack reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a couple of crumpled note cards, and Kent slumps, face looking annoyed.

“Are you serious?” he murmurs, but not quietly enough for Jack not to hear.

“Look, I’m trying here,” Jack says, trying to keep the defensiveness out of his voice. “Is that not obvious?”

“Sure, but. Ugh. Never mind. Just.” Kent waves his hand, telling Jack to proceed.

“I fucked up,” Jack states, forgoing the notecards. “I, I really, really fucked up, Kent. I fucked up when we were kids and I fucked up when you came to Samwell, and I’ve fucked up this time, too. I’m sorry. I want to make things right.”

There’s a pause, Kent staring. Jack shuffles on his feet, not daring to go on.

“Is that it? Because if you’re done, I have a birthday dinner to get to.”

Jack bristles. “What do you mean, ‘is that it?’”

“I mean, is that all you’re going to do?”

“I. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Kent scoffs, playing with the petals of his bouquet. “Flowers and a short, lame apology? On notecards? Has that worked for you since, like, kindergarten?”

Jack doesn’t say that it worked perfectly fine with Bittle.

“The notecard speech was better, but you didn’t want to hear it. If you don’t like the flowers --” he says instead.

“I didn’t say that,” Kent interrupts. “I just. Why this? Why now?”

“I guess it was supposed to help win you back.” Jack folds his arms, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

Kent sighs. “I don’t feel like you get what happened here.”

Jack says nothing, so Kent exhales sharply and continues.

“You were using me, Jack. To get off, sure, but also to, like, I don’t know, escape from your actual life. And you didn’t talk to me about it once. You didn’t trust me longer than it took to get me in bed, and when I got sick of it you came all the way out here to apologize with flowers and ‘I fucked up?’” He kicks a cat toy, and it jingles as it tumbles across the floor. “You say you love me, I don’t feel like I mean anything to you, Jack. And here I am, spelling it out to you because I’m an idiot who can’t stand the idea of you leaving again. But maybe you should. I don’t know. Maybe I should kick you out, this time.”

Jack says nothing, feeling every rush of blood his heart pumps out.

“If you wanna make it up to me? Treat me like I matter. And I don’t mean by spending money or making these big dramatic… whatever, gestures. Did you even think about the fact that it’s my birthday?”

“It’s not your birthday. It’s the third,” Jack replies meekly.

“Yeah, but I’m still busy because I have a life outside of you, and you didn’t even think about that, did you?”

Jack frowns. “Fine, okay. I didn’t think.”

“You never do!” Kent suddenly seems very interested in his cuticles. “And if we’re going to do this, being in each other’s lives again, you have to start, I dunno, looking outside of yourself a little bit.”

“About that.” 

Kent looks directly at Jack for the first time. 

“I’m taking your advice,” Jack says, hoping he doesn’t sound as apprehensive as he feels about it. “I’m going to talk to someone, finally.”

Kent’s quiet.

“Um, and I don’t think that automatically means that you should take me back, just to… just to clarify,” Jack adds. 

Kent stills. “I think that’s good, Jack.”

“I guess I’ve just had this aversion of talking to people, since, you know. It requires introspection. I’ve struggled with talking to myself, because of that.” Jack shrugs. “Also, the last time I did it, I was in the hospital, and I had to do it all fucking day and it really, really sucked.”

“I bet,” Kent replies. “But you realize not all therapy is like being in rehab, right?”

“Well, not really.” Jack takes a step closer to Kent, testing the waters: Kent doesn’t move away. So that’s a good sign, Jack thinks. “I don’t have anything else to compare it to.”

“It might take some time,” Kent warns. “To find the right fit.”

“How do you know so much, suddenly?”

Kent half laughs, half scoffs. “Dude, I’ve been in therapy since I was 17. You should have been doing the same, probably.”

Jack laughs, then feels sheepish. “Yeah, you’re not wrong.”

He adds, hopefully, “So you think -- you might wanna try -- being in each other’s lives again?” 

Kent shakes his head, and it takes Jack a moment to realize he’s not exactly saying no.

“I just - okay. There’s still too much we have to talk about. And, like, honestly -- I need you to show me that you’re not just keeping me around until some other big life crisis comes around and you decide to run away again.”

“I think… well, I hope that I’m done running away.”

“You’re going to have to prove that to me,” Kent says, the edge of a challenge in his voice.

“And how am I supposed to prove it to you?” Jack asks, understanding but ignoring how clueless he sounds.

“I don't know. I guess I just need time. We need time,” Kent answers.

“I can do that,” Jack replies softly.

“We’ll see.” Kent crosses his arms over his chest definitively. “Can I ask you something really rude?”

“Yeah?” Jack replies, nonplussed.

“How much did those flowers cost? Holy shit, I’m glad you didn’t get me roses.”

“I thought you’d like something more unique,” Jack said, shrugging. “And yeah, they were a lot cheaper than roses, so don’t get too excited.”

Parse laughs, a full, genuine laugh, one that fills the room with light. Jack smiles in response.

“So am I keeping you from your birthday dinner, or what?”

“Yeah, but you know what? Swoops can eat my ass, you’re invited now.”

Jack wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know if I want Swoops anywhere near your ass.”

“Oh, do you get a say?” Something sharp flickers in Kent’s eyes. But he smirks. 

Jack laughs, then replies, “I guess we’re not there yet.”

“I’m joking,” Kent clarifies, and Jack nods. 

“Yeah, I got that.”

Jack closes the small amount of space left between them, taking Kent into his arms. Kent wraps his own around Jack’s shoulders.

“I hope this means you forgive me,” he murmurs into Kent’s hair.

“Mmm,” Kent ponders. “I don’t think I’m done being mad at you, yet. But we’ll get there, I’m sure.”

“Why is everything so hard?” Jack asks, suddenly sounding mournful.

“I think you make it hard,” Kent replies, stepping away. “I mean, you’ll work it out in therapy, I’m sure. But just… let some things go, let some things take time. Tell your conscience to go easy on you, for once.”

“That sounds hard, too.”

“Hell, Jack, I thought you were ready to put in the work.”

“I am! I just.” Jack exhales, puffing his cheeks out. “I wish it were easier. I wish I hadn’t waited so long, maybe. Maybe I should have looked for help in October, when this all started.”

“Hindsight.” Kent shrugs. “And don’t worry. You’ll get there,” Kent says, reaching out and gripping Jack’s shoulder. “You’ll get there, babe.”

***

Jack returns to Providence with a nervous energy pressing on him from all directions.

During his meeting with Georgia and the PR team, he does his best to explain why the other Falcs are so angry with him, sparing some of the gorier details. 

“They’re just mad because they liked Bittle so much,” Georgia reasons. “But they’ll get over it in time for next season, I’m sure.”

Meredith looks like she wants to wring his neck, but she thanks him for the honesty. George looks like she’s waking up from a particularly nasty nightmare, but on the way out she pulls Jack aside, slips him the phone number he asked for, and squeezes his arm. 

Jack and Kent FaceTime almost daily, texting when they can’t talk face to face. They’ve stopped sexting. Jack’s fine with that, although he wants desperately to see Kent in person again. To his dismay, Kent insists they need to be careful, and that meeting alone over the summer might be too dangerous. Jack’s heart is tested in one of their earliest, hardest conversations, but he understands exactly why what they choose to do is necessary.

“Do you remember when I told you I can’t give you the same things Bittle could?”

“Yeah,” Jack replies warily.

“I’m not going to come out, Jack.”

Jack stops breathing for a moment.

“Is that a dealbreaker?” Kent asks. His tone is challenging, and Jack realizes that this isn’t going to be a debate.

“No,” Jack replies, finally making his mouth work. “I wouldn’t ask you to, but no.”

“Are you sure?” Kent grills.

“Of course.”

“It means we’ll have to hide,” Kent presses. “It means we’ll have to hide better than we were before, because your teammates figured out that you were seeing someone, and it’s not insane to think they might know who it was.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” Kent asks. 

“Yeah,” Jack replies simply.

“Are you saying that because you mean it, or because it’s what you think I want to hear?”

“I guess you’ll find out,” Jack replies.

Kent hums, but seems satisfied with that answer.

Throughout the summer, Jack endures calls from his agent and the Falcs, asking him to do this appearance or that event, every request to which he quietly acquiesces to avoid further catastrophe. He sees Kent at a few of them, and there are a smattering of photos online of them smiling together. Jack’s vaguely aware of how damning the fondness in his expression could be; but they don’t utter a word beyond how great it has been to reconnect as friends. The rumor mill churns, but then again, when hasn’t it done so?

Kent has thick skin, after all these years. In one of the interviews he does over the summer, he fields a question about Jack with a practiced grin and characteristic aloofness: “Jack’s my childhood buddy. It’s been great spending more time with him recently. Hey, have I shown you pics of him with my cat?” 

His charm has always been disarming. It’s one of Jack’s favorite things about him, though he might say aloud that it’s his masterful deke.

Whenever a teammate also shows up to an event, their interactions are chilled, civil. He hasn’t seen Snowy, and Tater is back in Russia, Poots and the rookies have gone home as well, and Jack has never made as close of friends with anyone else who’s still on the team. (He tries taking Sonny up on his offer, but it doesn’t really stick.) Jack makes a note to himself to get in touch with some of his retired friends, ask if they have any advice. In the meantime, maybe if he behaves, things will be easier in the fall.

Unfortunately, there’s not much more to do than wait. He sticks around Providence as much as he can bear that summer, mostly because he rigidly follows his appointment schedule, but he recognizes that things aren’t going to get easier for some time.

Apart from the team and his friends, he’s also been avoiding talking to his family.

He’s been putting it off as long as he can, but it’s been too long already. He has to deal with the mortification of announcing the breakup to his parents, who arrived back in Montreal last week.

He dreads that phone call, but knows he has to make it, so he clicks the Zimmermanns’ home number in his contacts, full of trepidation.

Alicia answers.

“Hi, Maman, it’s me.”

“Oh, Jack! To what do I owe the pleasure?” she responds brightly.

“Do you have a few minutes?” he asks, fidgeting with his free hand.

“Of course,” she replies. “For you, always.” He hears some rummaging, then some footsteps as he’s sure she makes her way to the kitchen. He can picture the sun seeping into the white-washed room, and decisively regrets how he’s about to break her heart.

“What’s going on?” she asks, and he takes a deep breath.

“It’s about Bittle and me,” he says. 

“Oh?” She asks. “Everything okay?”

“I, we, well… we broke up.”

“Oh, Jack,” she says. “I’m so sorry, baby. Are you going to be alright?”

“Yeah,” he says, continuing to work his way up to the reveal. “I, um… there’s someone else, actually.”

He can hear the surprise in her voice as she asks, “Really? Jack! Who?”

Jack takes a stealing breath, but she’s impatient. “Jack, who is it?”

He sighs again. “Maman, it’s… it’s Kent. I’ve been talking to Kent again, and we’re… well, it’s a… a possibility.”

She shrieks.

“Jack! Are you serious? Tell me you’re not serious!”

He feels absolutely gutted. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m serious.”

She lets out a delighted cheer before sighing, “Oh, thank god.”

He yanks the phone away from his ear and stares at it for a moment. Did… did he hear that correctly?

“Uh… what?”

“Thank god, Jack,” she repeats. “Oh, I’m so relieved!”

“You’re… you’re what?” He cannot be hearing this correctly.

“Now, don’t get me wrong,” she backpedals. “Eric is great, of course, we both know that.” Jack cringes. “But Kent! Oh, I always liked that boy,” she enthuses, and Jack just stares into space for a moment. 

If he’s not somehow hallucinating, it seems that both of his parents were always rooting for him and Kent. 

He feels like he’s just been slapped.

“Now, you have to tell me everything,” she says, and Jack absolutely will not tell her everything, but, he reasons, he can spare a few details.

“Well,” he starts, hearing the incredulity in his own voice. “It started a while ago, actually? I got his number from Conor and sent me this – it’s called Snapchat?”

“I know what Snapchat is, Jack,” Alicia responds, urging him along.

“Well, uh, so we started talking again, and I started sending him snaps of all the stray cats around here, and he really liked that,” Jack continues. “And I guess it just… fell away from there.”

“Oh, Jack,” she cries. “Oh, I’m so happy for you. But how did Bittle take it?”

“Uhhh,” Jack stammers. “Not… not great. He actually — I think he hates me.”

“Oh, he’ll get over it, he’s a grown man.”

Jack barks out a laugh, then slaps a hand over his mouth. Clearly, his mother never bothered to get to know Bittle all that well. After he recovers, he adds, “I don’t know. Maybe. We’ll see.”

“We’ll see,” she parrots back to him. “But in the meantime, Jack, oh, I’m so happy for you.”

After the conversation ends, Jack feels something close to relief. Disbelief, sure, but relief? Maybe.

Maybe there’s a silver lining to the storm cloud of all of this.

Jack can only hope there is.

***

Jack doesn’t tell all when it comes to his appointments. He tells those who know about them - George and Meredith, as well as a few necessary Falcs staff - that it’s going well, but keeps the details to himself.

He does think Parse might like to hear, however. After a summer of appointments, he’s ready to tell Kent about the experience.

“I don’t need, like, receipts that you’re going to therapy, you know,” Kent says with a laugh. “I trust that you’re doing what you need to do.”

“I know,” Jack replies. “But, uh, I kind of wanted to tell someone about it.”

“What do you think so far?” Kent asks, and Jack can tell that he really wants to know. Whatever’s going on between them, Jack feels warm and soft about it. 

“It was weird at first, but I’m kind of… relieved. She’s really, uh, honest, but without being mean. I feel like she actually has my best interests in mind, you know?”

“That’s good,” Kent replies. “I’m really glad to hear it.” Then he jokes, “Have you talked about me at all?”

“I do talk about you. Mostly how hot you are,” Jack teases.

Kent laughs at that, clear and loud, which makes Jack laugh along. 

“I’m glad you’re not running away anymore, Jack,” he states when they start to wrap up the call. “I hope it feels better for you, too.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “It’s, um, not easy to talk about myself when I still kind of hate myself for everything, but I guess -- I think I’m making progress.”

“Keep me updated. I’m excited for the day when you don’t hate yourself anymore.” Kent pauses. “I hope that didn’t come off too condescending. I just mean that, you know, I care about you. You asked me a while back if I could ever forgive you, but I think it’s a lot more important for you to be kind to yourself.”

“You never did tell me if you forgave me,” Jack points out.

“Let me put it this way,” Kent replies. “I’m not damaged by what happened between us this year. I’m here, and I’m here for you. Save your worrying energy for your own journey.”

“You sound like a self help guru,” Jack chuckles, and he can easily imagine Kent’s eyeroll. 

“Oh, shut up, I’m being serious.”

“Are you gonna sell me healing crystals? Are we going to do ayahuasca retreats in the woods?” Jack thinks he’s hilarious. 

“I’m hanging up now,” Kent intones loudly. 

“I can’t play hockey on a raw vegan diet,” Jack responds, raising his own voice, and he hears Kent grumble exasperatedly.

“Good bye, Jack.”

“Love you, miss you,” Jack says, but he doesn’t know if Kent hears it before the line goes dead. 

Jack’s thankful that he and Kent are at a place where they can joke like this. He keeps Kent and his words in mind as he laces up and heads out on a run. They’re getting closer; he can feel it. And he’s making progress; he can feel that, too.

It’s taking time, which Jack expected, but the effort is paying off. He didn’t predict how much better it would make him feel.

When he returns to his rental, he’s greeted with a text from Kent:

_I’m glad you’re making progress, Jack. I love and miss you, too._

There was a silver lining after all.


	14. come home to my heart - epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent offers to come to Providence, but Jack insists that he feels better flying out west. There’s a reason, though Kent doesn’t know it yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3

Jack continues to fly out to Vegas whenever he can for the next two seasons. Kent offers to come to Providence, but Jack insists that he feels better flying out west. There’s a reason, though Kent doesn’t know it yet.

On his bye week that spring, he finds himself curled up on Kent’s couch, idly stroking Purrs’ fur while Kent flips through channels. The small ball of warmth makes him wonder if he should get his own pet. Maybe a dog.

“Hey,” Kent brightens, always happy to see how Purrs and Jack get along. “You getting hungry yet?”

“Definitely,” Jack replies. “You?”

“Mmhmm,” Kent nods. “How does Chinese sound? I found this great place a few weeks ago and I’m craving lo mein.”

Jack agrees that it sounds perfect, so they place Purrs in his bed and stroll out into the orange light of the sunset. Halfway there, Kent stops, wrangles a confused Jack into a selfie, and laughs at his squinting face on the screen. Their blue eyes look bright green in the photo, thanks to the angle of the light shining in their irises. 

“Golden hour,” Kent comments, and Jack simply nods. 

“This is amazing.” Jack beams as he finishes his chicken. Kent nods around a mouthful of noodles, then swallows before responding. 

“Hell yeah,” he gushes. “There’s nothing like good food to round out a perfect week off.”

The waitress brings them the bill, which Kent insists on covering. On the tray are also small cups of strawberry shaved ice and a fortune cookie for each of them. They each snap theirs open, and Jack gives Kent his cookie pieces. Back in their teen years, Kent always ate Jack’s fortune cookies. Jack never liked the taste, and Kent never wanted food to go to waste; thankfully, it’s both a solid arrangement and a tradition they’ve come to think of as lucky. 

Jack clears his throat before reading his fortune aloud. “You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink,” he announces. “Huh. Well that’s not much of a fortune.”

Kent snorts before sliding his out of his own cookie. “You are the guiding star of his existence,” he reads. “Hm, I think we should complain about these cookies.”

Jack doesn’t hear him because he’s too busy laughing. 

“Oh my god, Jack.”

“That’s _so gay_ ,” Jack says between cackles, and Kent rolls his eyes, but he grins anyway before popping half a cookie in his mouth. 

“My guiding star,” Jack singsongs, then lapses into giggles all over again.

“Who said the fortune is about you?” Kent gripes. “Maybe I’m Swoops’s guiding star. I’m the guiding star for the whole damn Aces roster.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Jack finally calms down, but Kent doesn’t look too mad. “C'mon, eat my cookie, you’ll feel better.”

Kent gives Jack this look like he knows something Jack doesn’t, as they walk home in the dusk, and it makes Jack feel a little nervous. 

Jack’s been hiding something - and he’s worried that Kent might not appreciate that Jack hasn’t told him yet. 

He's been stalling on getting a new apartment in Providence, and when they get back to Kent’s apartment that night, it’s finally time to tell him why. 

He had another talk with George before flying out, this time about the team.

“So I’ve been thinking,” he says, Kent’s hand in his as he grazes his thumb across Kent’s knuckles.

“Thinking about what?” Kent asks, his head resting in his favorite spot on Jack’s shoulder.

“I might have put out feelers to… move. When my contract is up.”

Kent bolts upright and stares at him.

“No.”

Jack guffaws. “Don’t worry, it’s not to Vegas.”

Kent relaxes slightly. “I… oh,” he says, actually looking a tiny bit put out. 

“Swoops would never have me, you know that,” Jack says. His tone is joking, but he’s dead serious.

“He’ll come around,” Kent says flippantly, and Jack is reminded of his conversation with Alicia about Bittle. He shakes his head, not feeling up to worrying about Bittle right now.

“But we’ll be in the same conference,” Jack says. “I only have a few months left, we’re not going to make the playoffs, and the Falcs were a good place to start, but they’re trying to build in a different direction, so I… yeah, I took a look at my options.”

“Where do you want to go?” Kent asks, trying not to sound as absolutely delighted as he is.

“Houston or San Jose.” Jack looks dreamy just mentioning it. “Both are interested. But either one is so much closer to you.”

“It is,” Kent agrees, and rests his head back where it was. “It’s a much easier commute.”

“We’ll play each other a lot more,” Jack reminds him. “We’ll see each other a lot more. And I can spend my summers here, easily.”

“That actually sounds really great, Jack.”

“I know.” Jack basks in Kent’s warmth, and wishes he could scoop him up into his arms and carry him to bed now.

“Fuck Providence,” Kent declares. Jack laughs, but shakes his head.

“No,” he disagrees. “They gave me a lot of good years.”

“But they’re letting you go,” Kent says, sounding a little petulant. “After you’ve been playing so fucking well, too. Especially since we’re, like, old now.”

Jack shifts so Kent has to face him. “But I’m getting you out of the deal,” he says, very seriously.

“Yeah,” Kent says, gazing into Jack’s eyes. “You are.”

“So you and me…” Jack trails off.

“Yeah,” Kent says, a smile playing on his lips. “You and me, Jack. It’s always been you and me.”

Jack kisses him then, and Kent presses back with his whole body.

Purrs yowls from his perch in the cat tree, and Kent breaks away, laughing.

“Yeah, okay. You too, buddy.”

A moment passes, just Jack and Kent wrapped together in Kent’s apartment.

“Hey,” Kent murmurs. “You ever talk to Bittle again?”

“Not really,” Jack replies softly. “He was at that reunion I went to a few months ago, and he seems to be doing fine. He has a boyfriend and a job doing social media for some publishing company.”

“Good for him.”

“He’s happy, I think. Much better off than he was with me.”

“And you?”

“Hmm?” Jack turns his head to look at Kent. “What about me?”

“Are you happy?”

“Most I’ve ever been,” Jack replies with a small grin. Kent grins back.

“I’m happy for you, too, babe.”

They fall asleep like that, the lights of the city below glowing on the walls. Jack wakes up with a face full of Purrs’ fur and Kent’s cowlick. 

He wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
